The Pheasant-hen
The eye—the peculiar gait—the drooping wing—the “Coa—”
Chantecler
But I —
The Pheasant-hen
You do it all very nicely, I admit; only, it has not the very slightest effect upon me!
Chantecler
[Slightly abashed.] Madam—
The Pheasant-hen
Oh, I understand, of course. We are the illustrious Cock! Not a Hen in the world but preens her feathers in the hope—the very touching hope, certainly—of offering us a moment’s distraction, some day, between two songs. We are so sure of ourself that we never hesitate, not even when the lady is a visitor, and not quite the ordinary short-kirtled Hen whom one can engage without further ceremony by such advances—
Chantecler
But—
The Pheasant-hen
I do not bestow my affections quite so lightly. For my taste, anyhow, you are altogether too frankly Cock of the Walk!
Chantecler
Too—?
The Pheasant-hen
Spoiled! The only Cock to my fancy would be a plain inglorious Cock to whom I should be all in all.
Chantecler
But—