WIFE. [Pointing to the litter of papers] Why don't we live, instead of writing of it? [She points out unto the moonlight] What do we get out of life? Money, fame, fashion, talk, learning? Yes. And what good are they? I want to live!
PROF. [Helplessly] My dear, I really don't know what you mean.
WIFE. [Pointing out into the moonlight] Look! Orpheus with his lute, and nobody can see him. Beauty, beauty, beauty—we let it go. [With sudden passion] Beauty, love, the spring. They should be in us, and they're all outside.
PROF. My dear, this is—this is—awful. [He tries to embrace her.]
WIFE. [Avoiding him—an a stilly voice] Oh! Go on with your writing!
PROF. I'm—I'm upset. I've never known you so—so——
WIFE. Hysterical? Well! It's over. I'll go and sing.
PROF. [Soothingly] There, there! I'm sorry, darling; I really am.
You're kipped—you're kipped. [He gives and she accepts a kiss]
Better?
[He gravitates towards his papers.]
All right, now?