Mr. B. (aside.) Send her away! send her away! Ah, you villain, are you going to betray me?
Lady. You seem to have a great many pretty pictures here.
Artist. Ah—oh—well, a few little trifles. Are you fond of art?
Lady. Oh, yes—very.
Artist. I shall be happy to show you some of my sketches. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will bring them from the other room.
Lady. Certainly, It will give me great pleasure to look at anything in the shape of pictures. I once studied Poonah Painting and Potichomanie myself; and mamma's uncle, who was a great artist, and used to draw things with a red-hot poker, said he couldn't tell my pictures from life, almost—only I could never learn to do trees. Don't you find trees very difficult? Mamma's uncle used to say the only fault with my trees was that they looked like cabbages. I can paint cabbages very well; but then they don't look pretty in a picture, you know.
Artist. Indeed, I doubt not your delicate hand would lend a charm to any object it might portray. Nature is full of beauties, and there is a world of loveliness even in a cabbage.
Mr. B. (aside.) In a cabbage-head.
Artist. But I will bring you my portfolio—a few unworthy sketches which may serve to while away the moments till the arrival of your estimable father.
[Exit.
Mr. B. (aside.) Good heaven! He is going to keep me here all day while he makes a fool of himself to that young woman. This will never do! I must escape. I must throw myself on her mercy. She has an awful vicious expression of countenance, though. However, she must have the heart of a woman. Perhaps she has a brother; and how would she like to have him married against his will by fifteen women in blue? I will—yes, I will throw myself on her mercy. I will implore her to spare me. Poor thing! I shall be sorry to break her heart—but it must be done.——Courage, Bullywingle—courage! (Rushes out and throws himself at her feet.) My good young woman, spare me! Think of your own brother, and spare me!
[Lady screams and rushes off.