Serpent's Kiss

Juliana:
You can't swim. I suppose you could drown, though. Anybody can do that. Even on dry land.

Chrome:
Your servant.

Thea:
Your mistress.

Thea:
It's so undignified... lying on your back with your legs spread out.

Madam Clevely:
Any flowers?

Chrome:
This is an Anglo-Dutch garden, madam, with French influence. We have progressed from flowers. A garden is a celebration of art's triumph over nature.

Fitzmaurice:
We shall be the f***ing flowers. We shall provide the color and scent as we walk among the gravel paths.

Smithers:
Well, Chrome, shall we make the desert bloom?

Chrome:
First we must make the desert.

Fitzmaurice:
Don't you remember? Cousins can do things that other people can't. And we were more than children before anyone knew what we were up to.

Juliana:
Even we didn't know.

Fitzmaurice:
Could you lend me a carriage?

Smithers:
My dear James, have you nothing of your own?

Fitzmaurice:
Taste, my dear Thomas. Taste.

Chrome:
There's something missing.

Smithers:
Missing?

Chrome:
Yes.

Smithers:
The bills lack nothing. Nothing missing from the bills.

Chrome:
There will be flowers of brown and green and black.

Juliana:
Black?

Chrome:
The Larousse collection specializes in dark plants, often black. Primula Arricula. Canna Indica. Tulipfera Nigra. Anemone Atrocarrulea.

Juliana:
I would be unacceptable then in a Larousse collection.

Chrome:
Oh, I think you would be rare enough, exotic enough.

Juliana:
But my skin is white.

Chrome:
Completely white?

Juliana:
Completely.

Chrome:
No blemishes, no stains?

Chrome:
But inside

Chrome:
... deep inside... there is a darkness.

Juliana:
I feel there is. I can't be sure. It would need an expert touch to discover and comfirm it.

Chrome:
Perhaps if Monsieur Larousse was here he would be able to verify.

Juliana:
But in the absence of Monsieur Larousse - ...

Chrome:
I am not worthy.

Juliana:
And I might not always find it convenient to wait for the arrival of Monsieur Larousse. May I move now?

Chrome:
Thea! Please! Why won't you listen to me?

Thea:
Because you're saying nothing. Whisper your sweet nothings to my mother. She will hear you. I can't. Good-bye, Mr. Chrome, whoever you are.

Fitzmaurice:
Your husband is cursing God. Fortunately God can't hear his blasphemies above the noise of the wind.

Chrome:
I want no more part of it.

Fitzmaurice:
For one who so enjoys outdoor activity, you are surprisingly unconcerned for your freedom.