GUENEVERE. Different? Yes, I'm a coward. I'm not primitive enough.
Despise me. You've a right to. And—please go.
LANCELOT. I'm afraid I'm not very primitive either, Gwen. I—
GUENEVERE. I'm afraid you're not, Lance. That's the trouble with us. We're civilized. Hopelessly civilized. We had a spark of the old barbaric flame—but it went out. We put it out—quenched it with conversation. No, Lancelot, we've talked our hour away. It's time for you to pack up. Good-bye. (He kisses her hand lingeringly.) You may kiss my lips if you like. There's not the slightest danger. We were unnecessarily alarmed about ourselves. We couldn't misbehave! … Going?
LANCELOT. Damn you! Good-bye!
He goes.
GUENEVERE. Well, that did it. If he had stayed a moment longer—!
She flings up her arms in a wild gesture—then recovers herself, and goes to her chair, where she sits down and quietly resumes the darning of her husband's socks.
THE RIM OF THE WORLD
A FANTASY
To MARJORIE JONES