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GUENEVERE.
Very well, Lancelot. Do you really want to elope with me?

LANCELOT.
Very much.

GUENEVERE.
That’s not the right answer.
You know perfectly well you want to do nothing of the sort.
What! Scandalize everybody, and ruin my reputation, and break Vivien’s heart?

LANCELOT.
No–I don’t suppose I really want to do any of those things.

GUENEVERE.
Then do you want us to conduct a secret and vulgar intrigue?

LANCELOT.
( hurt )

Guenevere!

GUENEVERE.
You realize, of course,
that this madness of ours might last no longer than a month?

LANCELOT.
( soberly )

Perhaps.

GUENEVERE.
Well, do you still want to kiss me?–Think what you are saying, Lancelot, for I may let you. And that kiss may be the beginning of the catastrophe. ( She moves toward him.) Do you want a kiss that brings with it grief and fear and danger and heartbreak?

LANCELOT.
No–

GUENEVERE.
Then what do you want?

LANCELOT.
I want–a kiss.

GUENEVERE.
Never. If you had believed, for one your chance.

LANCELOT.
Kiss me!

GUENEVERE.
Never. If you had believed, for one moment, that it was worth the price of grief and heartbreak, I should have believed it too, and kissed you, and not cared what happened. I should have risked the love of my husband and the happiness of your sweetheart without a qualm. And who knows? It might have been worth it. An hour from now I shall be sure it wasn’t; I shall be sure it was all blind, wicked folly. But now I am a little sorry. I wanted to gamble with fate. I wanted us to stake our two lives recklessly upon a kiss–and see what happened. And you couldn’t. It wasn’t a moment of beauty and terror to you. You didn’t want to challenge fate. You just wanted to kiss me…. Go!

LANCELOT.
( turning on her bitterly )

You women! Because you are afraid, you accuse us of being cowards.

GUENEVERE.
What do you mean?

LANCELOT.
( brutally )

You! You want a love-affair. Your common sense tells you it’s folly. Your reason won’t allow it. So you want your common sense to be overwhelmed, your reason lost. You want to be swept off your, feet. You want to be made to do something you don’t approve of. You want to be wicked, and you want it to be some one else’s fault. Tell me–isn’t it true?

GUENEVERE.
Yes, it is true–except for one thing, Lancelot. It’s true that I wanted you to sweep me off my feet, to make me forget everything; it was wrong, it was foolish of me to want it, but I did. Only if you had done it, you wouldn’t have been “to blame.” I should have loved you for ever because you could do it. And now, because you couldn’t I despise you. Now you know. … Go.

LANCELOT.
No, Guenevere, you don’t despise me. You’re angry with me and angry with yourself because you couldn’t quite forget King Arthur. You are blaming me and I am blaming you, isn’t it amusing?

GUENEVERE.
You are right, Lancelot. It’s my fault. Oh, I envy women who can dare to make fools of themselves who forget everything and don’t care what they do! I suppose that’s love–and I’m not up to it.

LANCELOT.
You are different….

GUENEVERE.
Different? Yes, I’m a coward. I’m not primitive enough. Despise me. You’ve a right to. And–please go.

LANCELOT.
I’m afraid I’m not very primitive either, Gwen. I–

GUENEVERE.
I’m afraid you’re not, Lance. That’s the trouble with us. We’re civilized. Hopelessly civilized. We had a spark of the old barbaric flame–but it went out. We put it out–quenched it with conversation. No, Lancelot, we’ve talked our hour away. It’s time for you to pack up. Good-bye. ( He kisses her hand lingeringly.) You may kiss my lips if you like. There’s not the slightest danger. We were unnecessarily alarmed about ourselves. We couldn’t misbehave! … Going?

LANCELOT.
Damn you! Good-bye!

He goes.

GUENEVERE.
Well, that did it. If he had stayed a moment longer–!

She flings up her arms in a wild gesture–then recovers herself, and goes to her chair, where she sits down and quietly resumes the darning of her husband’s socks.