Dora. If he would only propose to marry me I would accept him, but he don't know that, and he will go on fooling, in his slow European way, until it is too late.
Zoe. What's to be done?
Dora. You tell him.
Zoe. What? that he isn't to go on fooling in his slow—
Dora. No, you goose! twit him on his silence and abstraction—I'm sure it's plain enough, for he has not spoken two words to me all the day; then joke round the subject, and at last speak out.
Scud. Pete, as you came here, did you pass Paul and the Indian with the letter-bags?
Pete. No, sar; but dem vagabonds neber take de 'specable straight road, dey goes by de swamp.
[Exit up path, L. U. E.
Scud. Come, sir!
Dora. [To Zoe.] Now's your time.—[Aloud.] Mr. Scudder, take us with you—Mr. Peyton is so slow, there's no getting him, on.