"I don't know what yer mean," said Clorinda, beginning to resume a little of her usual rigidity; "if yer ain't a talkin' Spanish now, it's jist as bad."
"I alludes to de coquettations in which yer all indulge."
"I don't," said Clo; "I leaves all sich foolishnesses to silly things like dat Vic—I hasn't no patience wid 'em."
"Oh! Miss Clorindy, Miss Clorindy!"
"Dat's my name, fast 'nuff; yer needn't go shouting it out dat ways."
"When I'se seed wid my own eyes," said Dolf.
"What has yer seen? Jis' 'ticlarise—I hate beatin' round de bush."
Clo really believed that Dolf was getting jealous; the bare idea filled her with a delicious thrill—triumphs of that sort were sufficiently rare in her experience to be exceedingly precious.
"But I don't know what yer mean," she went on, "no more'n de man in de moon."
"Dar it is!" said Dolf. "Why, I b'lieves dat ar's de only reason de sect looks at de moon, cause dar's a man in it."