What? You are but come, and already speak of going. Come, then.
[Puts his arm around her and draws her towards the inner door, that, when open, shows a bedroom.]
Miss Fitton:
No, no; time fleets. I must go soon: it is impossible. Let us talk here.
Shakespeare:
You are the bellows and the fan to my desire: yet as soon as you see the flame, you shrink and leave me.
Miss Fitton:
[Regarding him curiously.] It is hard to please you now.
Shakespeare:
You don’t try often—nor long.