GUENEVERE. (quietly) It is lunacy, isn't it?
LANCELOT. Is it?
GUENEVERE. Sheer lunacy. In love with one woman, and wanting to kiss another. Disgraceful, in fact.
LANCELOT. I know what you think! You think I'm paying you an extremely caddish compliment—or else—
GUENEVERE. (earnestly, as she rises) No, I don't think that at all, Lancelot. I believe you when you say that about me. And I don't imagine for one moment that you're not really in love with Vivien. I know you are. I could pretend to myself that you weren't—just as you've tried to pretend to yourself sometimes, that I'm not really in love with Arthur. But you know I am—don't you?
LANCELOT. Yes. …
GUENEVERE. Well, Lancelot, there are—two lunatics here. (He stares at her.) It's almost funny. I don't know why I'm telling you. But—
LANCELOT. You—!
GUENEVERE. Yes. I want to kiss you, too.
LANCELOT. But this won't do. As long as there was only one of us—