Miss Fitton:
[Smiling and seating herself.] “Affairs of state” would sound well for a queen; but I prefer the truth. [Solemnly.] A three-piled ruff, the newest thing in neckgear, made me forget your coming. You see your queen is very woman. [He kisses her hand and she pushes his head up gently.] One of Eve’s unnumbered daughters.
Shakespeare:
[Kneeling.] The wittiest of all, the most adored, the fairest! Your hand [lifting it in his] is warm ivory, so firm and smooth [looks up at her]—the eyes like wells o’erhung with shadow—and oh, the rubious lips. [Puts up his hand and draws down her head; she bends and kisses him; then rises.]
Miss Fitton:
You must rise; we might be seen: we have only half an hour; be careful; someone might come.
Shakespeare:
[Rising.] What a fate is mine! I see you but for a moment and then lose you. It is a week since we met and now I may not kiss you. I long for you night and day; my flesh aches for you; I am parched with fever and may not quench my thirst.
Miss Fitton:
Those high fevers have no long continuance; I prefer enduring affection—tenderness——