[_Scornfully._] They say! Men say that; but it is worse than false. No sooner is a man in love than he lies, wheedles, pretends, shows off—for all the world like the peacock in the garden yonder, that sidles round with tail outspread, in stately sweepings. But when we women fall to love, we are too honest to be vain—too fond for make-believe. SHAKESPEARE: Those are the signs of love in man, as in woman. But who made you wise, so young? MISS FITTON: Mother Eve, I suppose. The greenest girl knows more about love than your graybeard. SHAKESPEARE: True. MISS FITTON: [_Settling herself, and pointing to the seat._] You may liken me to night if it please you. We dark women are out of favour now: red hair is the Queen’s colour, and Beauty’s ensign: bleached locks, even, are preferred to brown or black. SHAKESPEARE: [_Taking the chair, and leaning towards her._] I must have been born red, then, to love your great dark eyes, and the coils and tresses of your hair. MISS FITTON: [_Pouting._] Do you believe people must like their opposites in colour and height and—— SHAKESPEARE: Such a difference is only one strand in the tie; and in a true marriage the mind, I think, is more than the body. MISS FITTON: Of course the mind and character have something to do with it—the sauce to the sweet: but the body’s the sweet. SHAKESPEARE: When I am with you, I think so too. I cannot reason now, I can only feel. I saw you yesterday for the first time, a few poor minutes; and now you are with me again and time is fleeting. Oh, I want fifty eyes to take in your beauties, fifty ears to catch the music of your voice, fifty hands to touch you, fifty lives to show you how I love—— MISS FITTON: [_Draws up._] Love! love is not so sudden-mad—But hush! [_She takes up a mirror to hide her face; Shakespeare masks; a page crosses stage rapidly from_ L. _to_ R.] MISS FITTON: [_Putting down the mirror._] And so you love me—madly—in an hour? SHAKESPEARE: [_Taking off the mask._] Ah, lady, Time is love’s plaything—now he presses years into one look, one touch; and now a moment’s kiss swoons out of count—will you not yield to love’s magic? MISS FITTON: I don’t think I love easily. But why do you love me? SHAKESPEARE: Your beauty, grace, courage, wit—a thousand reasons; but deeper than all reason and higher is love’s throne. MISS FITTON: We have a saying in my country, “quick flame soon cold.” SHAKESPEARE: Ah, that’s not true in love; proverbs are never true; they are all made by dullards for the dull, but tell me how shall I win you? Teach me. Like a timid scholar I’ve forgotten all I knew. Will love win love? MISS FITTON: Love will keep us when won; I have no philtre for the winning. SHAKESPEARE: One thing you must believe: this love is all my life. MISS FITTON: I’ll believe it sooner than I confess I do; for I love to hear you say it. A constant lover, you know, touches every woman’s heart. SHAKESPEARE: Then I shall win you, sweet! MISS FITTON: