MORELL (steadily controlling his suspense). Then? MARCHBANKS (prosaically slipping down into a quite ordinary attitude in the chair). Then she couldn't bear being read to any longer. MORELL. And you approached the gate of Heaven at last? MARCHBANKS. Yes. MORELL. Well? (Fiercely.) Speak, man: have you no feeling for me? MARCHBANKS (softly and musically). Then she became an angel; and there was a flaming sword that turned every way, so that I couldn't go in; for I saw that that gate was really the gate of Hell. MORELL (triumphantly). She repulsed you! MARCHBANKS (rising in wild scorn). No, you fool: if she had done that I should never have seen that I was in Heaven already. Repulsed me! You think that would have saved me--virtuous indignation! Oh, you are not worthy to live in the same world with her. (He turns away contemptuously to the other side of the room.) MORELL (who has watched him quietly without changing his place). Do you think you make yourself more worthy by reviling me, Eugene? MARCHBANKS. Here endeth the thousand and first lesson. Morell: I don't think much of your preaching after all: I believe I could do it better myself. The man I want to meet is the man that Candida married. MORELL. The man that--? Do you mean me? MARCHBANKS. I don't mean the Reverend James Mavor Morell, moralist and windbag. I mean the real man that the Reverend James must have hidden somewhere inside his black coat--the man that Candida loved. You can't make a woman like Candida love you by merely buttoning your collar at the back instead of in front. MORELL (boldly and steadily). When Candida promised to marry me, I was the same moralist and windbag that you now see. I wore my black coat; and my collar was buttoned behind instead of in front. Do you think she would have loved me any the better for being insincere in my profession? MARCHBANKS (on the sofa hugging his ankles). Oh, she forgave you, just as she forgives me for being a coward, and a weakling, and what you call a snivelling little whelp and all the rest of it. (Dreamily.) A woman like that has divine insight: she loves our souls, and not our follies and vanities and illusions, or our collars and coats, or any other of the rags and tatters we are rolled up in. (He reflects on this for an instant; then turns intently to question Morell.) What I want to know is how you got past the flaming sword that stopped me. MORELL (meaningly). Perhaps because I was not interrupted at the end of ten minutes. MARCHBANKS (taken aback). What! MORELL. Man can climb to the highest summits; but he cannot dwell there long. MARCHBANKS. It's false: there can he dwell for ever and there only. It's in the other moments that he can find no rest, no sense of the silent glory of life. Where would you have me spend my moments, if not on the summits? MORELL. In the scullery, slicing onions and filling lamps. MARCHBANKS. Or in the pulpit, scrubbing cheap earthenware souls?