The Winged Beetle

MR TODD 185 EUPHEMIA. Oh, you laugh even at me ! CARR. Because I love you. So I laugh at humanity : if I took men seriously I should have to cut my throat. EUPHEMIA. So you don’t take me seriously either ? CARR. If I did, I should have to cut—— EUPHEMIA. What ? CARR. My lucky ! EUPHEMIA. What a dreadful expression ! Where do you learn such things ? CARR. I notice you don’t have to ask what it means. EUPHEMIA. Stop teasing, darling ! CARR. I’m not teething ! That’s what I complain of ; you always treat me as a baby ! EUPHEMIA. Come to his mummy, then ! CARR. You’re not my mummy ! That’s what I complain of ; you always treat me as a Cheops, ever since that night on the Great Pyramid ! EUPHEMIA. [Hides her head in his bosom.] Oh shame, shame ! CARR. Not a bit of it ! Think of the infinite clearness of the night— “ The magical green of the sunset, The magical blue of the Nile.” The rising of the great globed moon—the stars starting from their fastnesses like sentries on the alarm—the isolation of our stance upon the summit—the faery dis- tance of Cairo and its spear-sharp minarets—and we— and we— EUPHEMIA. Oh me ! Oh me !