Tessa: Is something wrong?
Will: No, I simply—I did not bring you here that I might maul you in the Whispering Gallery.
Tessa: I am not asking you to maul me in the Whispering Gallery! But by the Angel, Will, would you stop being so polite?
Will: But wouldn’t you rather—
Tessa: I would not rather. I don’t want you to be polite! I want you to be Will! I don’t want you to indicate points of architectural interest to me as if you were a Baedeker guide! I want you to say dreadfully mad, funny things and make up songs and be— the Will I fell in love with— And be Will. Or I shall hit you with my umbrella.
Will: I am trying to court you. Court you properly. That’s what all this has been about. You know that, don’t you?
Tessa: Mr. Rochester never courted Jane Eyre.
Will: No, he dressed up as a woman and terrified the poor girl out of her wits. Is that what you want?
Tessa: You would make a very ugly woman.
Will: I would not. I would be stunning.
Tessa: There. There is Will. Isn’t that better? Don’t you think so?
Will: I don’t know. I’m afraid to answer that. I’ve heard that when I speak, it makes American women wish to strike me with umbrellas.