MAR. Are you?
JEAN. Jealous of all things that claim you; the winds that whisper to you all day long, the dreams that make you smile or sigh, the moon-beams that enfold you at night, the thoughts that bid you pay attention.
MAR. I know a magician who converts all those things to his use.
JEAN. I know an enchantress who makes him believe he does.
MAR. He praises my eyes, my lips, my hair, and I lie awake at night thinking about the happiness and the wonder of their being beautiful to him.
JEAN. The wonder would be in their being anything else.
MAR. Even for my chance words, he creates meanings of wisdom and wit.
JEAN. Because, like the sun’s rays, they beautify even the smallest things.
MAR. I am afraid he does not hear me; that he does not see me.
JEAN. He loves you, sweetheart. God has put no appraiser in the world half so infallible as Love. Do you know why I was jealous of that long thought of yours?