Chantecler
[Stamping.] I shall be angry!
The Pheasant-hen
No, no, don’t be angry—Say “Coa—” [They stand bill to bill.]
Chantecler
[Angrily.] Coa—
The Pheasant-hen
No, no! Say it nicely—
Chantecler
[In a long, tender coo.] Coa—
The Pheasant-hen
Look at me without laughing. Your secret—
Chantecler
Well?
The Pheasant-hen
You are dying to tell it to me!
Chantecler
Yes, I feel that I shall tell, and I know I shall do ill in telling. And it’s all because of the gold on her dainty little head! [Going brusquely nearer to her.] Shall you prove worthy, at least, of having been chosen? Is your breast true red to the core?
The Pheasant-hen
Now tell me!