Miss Fitton:
Herbert! [Hurriedly.] I have not seen him for days and days. Has he been here?
Shakespeare:
He’s not likely to come here. Damn him!
Miss Fitton:
[Takes up her hat and begins to put it on; she puts her hair right with the hand-glass and then moves to the door and takes up her horseman’s coat from the settle; all this while Shakespeare sits with his head on his hand. She moves across and stands beside him, and then puts her hand on his shoulder.] You make it hard for me to come! You are so moody-sullen. What would you have me do?
Shakespeare:
[Looking down.] Love me, that’s all [As if to himself.]—it isn’t much. Give me love’s ecstasy, the joy that beggars thanks; the life that is divine. Love is my mortal sickness, love!
Miss Fitton:
You should rouse yourself: you are moody.