Chantecler
I make my escape.
The Pheasant-hen
[Furious.] Oh!
Chantecler
I speed through the dew to a distant place, to sing there the necessary number of times, and when I feel the darkness wavering, when only one song more is needed, I return and noiselessly getting back to roost, wake the Pheasant-hen by singing it at her side.—Betrayed by the dew? Oh, no! [Laughing.] For with a whisk of my wing I brush my feet clear of the tell-tale silveriness!
The Pheasant-hen
[Close behind him.] You brush your—?
Chantecler
[Turning.] Ouch! [Into the convolvulus.] No nothing! I Later!—Ouch!
The Pheasant-hen
[Violently.] So! So! Not only you keep up an interest in the fidelity of your old flames—
Chantecler
[Evasively.] Oh!
The Pheasant-hen
You furthermore—
Chantecler
I —
The Bee
[Inside the morning-glory.] Vrrrrrrr!