[With a deadly smile of triumph]
That will be poetic justice! . . . that will solve everything! . . . she won’t marry him! . . . he will turn to me for comfort! . . . but I must plan it out carefully! . . .
Marsden
[Driven on—extravagantly]
Listen, Nina! After we’re married I’m going to write a novel—my first real novel! All the twenty odd books I’ve written have been long-winded fairy tales for grown-ups—about dear old ladies and witty, cynical bachelors and quaint characters with dialects, and married folk who always admire and respect each other, and lovers who avoid love in hushed whispers ! That’s what I’ve been, Nina—a hush-hush whisperer of lies! Now I’m going to give an honest healthy yell—turn on the sun into the shadows of lies—shout “This is life and this is sex, and here are passion and hatred and regret and joy and pain and ecstasy, and these are men and women and sons and daughters whose hearts are weak and strong, whose blood is blood and not a soothing syrup!” Oh, I can do it, Nina! I can write the truth! I’ve seen it in you, your father, my mother, sister, Gordon, Sam, Darrell and myself. I’ll write the book of us! But here I am talking while my last chapters are in the making—right here and now—
[Hurriedly]
You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Nina? I must watch—my duty as an artist!
[He scrambles to his feet and peers about him with a hectic eagerness. Nina pays no attention to him]
