Oh no. I want you. I love you.
STREPHON. I love someone else. And she has gone old, old. Lost to me for
ever.
THE HE-ANCIENT. How old?
STREPHON. You saw her when you barged into us as we were dancing. She is
four.
THE NEWLY BORN. How I should have hated her twenty minutes ago! But I
have grown out of that now.
THE HE-ANCIENT. Good. That hatred is called jealousy, the worst of our
childish complaints.
_Martellus, dusting his hands and puffing, returns from the grove._
MARTELLUS. Ouf! [_He sits down next the Newly Born_] That job's
finished.
ARJILLAX. Ancients: I should like to make a few studies of you. Not
portraits, of course: I shall idealize you a little. I have come to the
conclusion that you ancients are the most interesting subjects after
all.
MARTELLUS. What! Have those two horrors, whose ashes I have just
deposited with peculiar pleasure in poor Pygmalion's dustbin, not cured
you of this silly image-making!
ARJILLAX. Why did you model them as young things, you fool? If Pygmalion
had come to me, I should have made ancients of them for him.
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