Poe. Not everything. (Taking her face between his hands as she sits on his knee, the book falling at their feet) I do not know how to be happy when this beautiful face is gone. My wife is the fairest lady in all the world.
Vir. Then what does it matter about this old Greek, Edgar? (Touching book with her foot)
Poe. Just this. You can not always be young and beautiful, and when you are no longer the fairest I want you to be the wisest.
Vir. And if I am you will love me always?
Poe. Always.
Vir. Give me the book! (Picks it up) O, I will eat Greek! I will breakfast with the heroes, dine with the bards, and sup with the gods! But what a pity one must begin with the alphabet to end with—what were those lovely lines I found in your book yesterday?
And Helen on the walls rose like a star,
And every Trojan said ‘she ’s worth our blood,’
And every Greek ploughed new his way to her—
Go on, Edgar! I ’m sure you know them!
(As she repeats the lines he presses her head to his shoulder and puts his hand over her eyes. His face is full of agony, but there is only sweetness in his voice.)
Poe. Not now, my little wife. Some other time.