Slow-moving—
Hilda.
And ungainly.
Gioconda.
A brow like H. G. Wells' my fancy draws,
An eye like Bennett's and a beard like Shaw's.
I know your Harry—just the English type,
A silent strong man married to his pipe,
With so few words, except about machines,
That he can never tell you what he means:
But were I his, and we two went a-walking,
What should that matter? I could do the talking.
Hilda.
Surely you see, Gioconda, I require
A lover who can make love with some fire.
Gioconda.
And I a lover so much overcome
By deep emotion that it leaves him dumb.
Hilda.