HILDA. I'll tell you, for I'm sure you'll sympathize.
I have a lover——
GIOCONDA.That is no surprise.
HILDA. And by the post this morning came a letter——
GIOCONDA. From him?
HILDA.From him.
GIOCONDA.What could have happened better?
HILDA. Ah! naturally you think that Harry writes
Of longing, suicide, and sleepless nights.
Did he, I'd read his letters ten times over—
But you don't know the Twentieth-Century lover.
Oh, for a man who'd write through tears, all swimmily,
And woo me with grand metaphor and simile!
I couldn't bear the slang that Harry used
In asking for my hand.
GIOCONDA.So you refused!
HILDA. Yes, and came here to seek a braver time.
GIOCONDA. How odd! I had a letter, all in rhyme,
Brought by a lackey to my father's gate
Just when dawn broke. As if I couldn't wait!
He dashed up, panting; and his horse's mouth
Was flecked with blood and foam....