“With you for the sweet scene in the garden,” he cried.
In a moment Brilliana was busy in the setting of her scene. She pulled round a heavy, high-backed chair and leaped into it, leaning over the back and looking up as if the painted ceiling glowed with the stars of an Italian night. Then the words flowed from her, the wonderful words:
“‘O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name:
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.’”
Evander said his line a little stiffly; he was awkward, being a man.
“‘Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?’”
Brilliana flowed on:
“‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy:
Thou art thyself though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,
Nor arm nor face. O be some other name
Belonging to a man.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title.—Romeo, doff thy name;
And for thy name which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.’”
Evander put heart now into his part as he moved towards her.
“‘I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptiz’d;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.’”