I'm ever so much older than you, if you only knew. MARCHBANKS (raising his head quickly and turning a little to look round at her). Yes: I'm sure you feel a great grown up wicked deceiver-quite proud of yourself, aren't you? Now I'm doing wrong and I'm happy.ĬANDIDA (tenderly amused at him). Oh, I've been so miserable all the evening, because I was doing right. He hesitates then timidly stretches himself on the hearth-rug, face upwards, and throws back his head across her knees, looking up at her.) (She moves her chair back a little to make room. MARCHBANKS (in half terror, half rapture). Come and sit down on the hearth-rug, and talk moonshine as you usually do. (He looks round him in his lost way, and adds, suddenly) I think I'll go out and take a walk in the park.

You've been reading to me for more than two hours-ever since James went out. There are limits to my appetite for poetry-even your poetry. (He stoops to pick up the manuscript.)ĬANDIDA. Those sonnets of yours have perfectly addled me. What? (With a puzzled glance at him.) I can't quite follow that. If Morell had come in he would have thought you had taken up the poker because there was no sword between us.ĬANDIDA (wondering). If I were a hero of old, I should have laid my drawn sword between us. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have put it down at once. I think the poker must have fascinated me. I've read you several things since.ĬANDIDA (remorsefully). I finished the poem about the angel quarter of an hour ago. I beg your pardon for boring you.ĬANDIDA. MARCHBANKS (crushed-the manuscript dropping from his hand to the floor). I'm longing to hear what happens to the angel. Morell!ĬANDIDA (with a guilty excess of politeness). (He looks to her for assent, and notices her absorption in the poker.) Haven't you been listening? (No response.) Mrs. MARCHBANKS (breaking off in his recitation): Every poet that ever lived has put that thought into a sonnet. She is leaning back and looking at the point of it curiously, with her feet stretched towards the blaze and her heels resting on the fender, profoundly unconscious of her appearance and surroundings. Candida is in the easy chair with the poker, a light brass one, upright in her hand. A little pile of manuscripts and a couple of volumes of poetry are on the carpet beside him. The reading lamp is on the mantelshelf above Marchbanks, who is sitting on the small chair reading aloud from a manuscript. Candida and Marchbanks are seated at the fire. The typewriter is in its case the large table has been cleared and tidied everything indicates that the day's work is done. The curtains are drawn, and the lamps lighted. 173440 Candida - Act III George Bernard Shaw Late in the evening.

Bernard shaw's candida