Dick. Moselle, I'm afraid you'll never be won.
Moselle. Not by arithmetic. I hate figures.
Dick. I admire yours.
Moselle. Do you, Dick? What! in these rags? Ah! you should see me in regimentals.
Dick. Regimentals?
Moselle. Yes: silks and satins, kids and laces, as Madam Ferule turns us out for inspection.
Dick. I should like that.
Moselle. I hate it. Give me a gown like this, that shows the honorable tears of contact with briers and rocks; a pair of boots like these, that won't slip on the bark of trees,—and I'm just jolly. I can run, climb, fly. And here I am wasting time. I can stand still no longer. I'm off (flies up run): catch me if you can.
Dick. Moselle!
Moselle (stops and turns). Well, Dick?