Rich? Oh I’m not rich, says Polly sweetly. I’m quite content with simple things. Tony has his secrets, too. Up shore they share lies. So desirous they are to win the other’s affection, so afraid they are of safeguarding their own hearts. They tell each other new stories, weaving them into the fabric of their futures that promise respite from the pressures of money and power and expectation. Best stay home now, never mind the contradictions. They dance a mime and enter into an imaginary house. Tony takes out a key and opens the door, carrying Polly through the threshold. They run up the stairs and admire the room. He thumps the bed, she turns down the bedclothes. He slowly pulls down the blinds.