No, thanks.
GERALD. I believe you're a reformed character. So it won't be like
old times, after all.
ANABEL. I don't want old times. I want new ones.
GERALD. Wait till Job Arthur has risen like Anti-christ, and
proclaimed the resurrection of the gods.--Do you see Job Arthur
proclaiming Dionysos and Aphrodite?
ANABEL. It bores me. I don't like your mood. Good night.
GERALD. Oh, don't go.
ANABEL. Yes, good night. (Exit.)
OLIVER. She's NOT reformed, Gerald. She's the same old moral
character--moral to the last bit of her, really--as she always was.
GERALD. Is that what it is?--But one must be moral.
OLIVER. Oh, yes. Oliver Cromwell wasn't as moral as Anabel is--nor
such an iconoclast.
GERALD. Poor old Anabel!
OLIVER. How she hates the dark gods!
GERALD. And yet they cast a spell over her. Poor old Anabel! Well,
Oliver, is Bacchus the father of whisky?
OLIVER. I don't know.--I don't like you either. You seem to smile
all over yourself. It's objectionable. Good night.
GERALD. Oh, look here, this is censorious.
OLIVER. You smile to yourself. (Exit.)
(Curtain.)
ACT III
SCENE I
An old park. Early evening. In the background a low Georgian
hall, which has been turned into offices for the Company, shows
windows already lighted. GERALD and ANABEL walk along the path.
ANABEL. How beautiful this old park is!
GERALD.
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