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_.