Do you know that the clergy have discovered it? They have begun preaching sermons about it. Someone discovered something about it in Ezekiel. He called it a “moony tire” and said that it was immodest. And unwomanly. I don’t think it is particularly manly, do you?

RICHARD. It’s adorable.

ANNE. Robert’s wife got stuck in Cheapside yesterday. She forgot that she wasn’t wearing a cap, and she was impaled between two booths. It was the sensation of the afternoon. She offered to pay the man for his trouble in taking down his booth, but he said that he had laughed so much that she didn’t owe him anything.

RICHARD. Poor Philippa!

ANNE. I came along to find out whether I could hear Uncle Gloucester thumping on the table, or if things were going quietly. But it’s over, is it? Tell me, Richard, did they agree? Did they say yes?

RICHARD. (_sulkily_). It isn’t over. As far as I can see they’ve only just begun.

ANNE. But—. Oh, Richard! Have you run away again! And you promised me that you would be patient, that you wouldn’t—.

RICHARD. How can I be patient! I know I have a dreadful temper, but how can I be patient? They treat me like a child! They think my ideas are moonshine; idealistic nonsense. When I give my opinion they half smile, a little pityingly—”Poor thing, he is young, and not to be blamed for his queer ideas”—they pause a moment for politeness’ sake, and then go on as if I had not spoken. Do you wonder that I go blind with rage?

ANNE. But, Richard, you are the King.

RICHARD. No, I am merely Edward’s grandson. And my father’s son. They compare me always in their minds with my father. They eye me and think: “If the Prince had lived, there would be none of this pacifist nonsense.” Because my father was a general and loved campaigning they think me a weakling. They have no vision. War, war; war! It is all they ever think of. When there is no war they are bored. Tell me, what is shameful about peace?

ANNE.