Mrs. Gale. Now, March, be careful of that musical voice of yours while I’m gone: don’t strain it. (Exit, R.)
Kitty. March Gale! you ain’t a bit perlite: why don’t you give me a seat?
March. Well, I’ll give you a seat, now the flat-iron’s out of the way (lifts her to table, where she sits swinging her feet and eating bread and butter).
Kitty. Isn’t she pretty?
March. Mother Gale?
Kitty. Mother Gale! No: Miss Kate.
March. Yes, indeed.
Kitty. And she’s so rich, and dresses so fine. I suppose she lives in a big house with a buffalo on top, and a pizzaro, and a miranda, and all that.
March. Yes, indeed, she’s very rich; but then you just wait till my mysterious parent turns up. I know he’s a rich man: you never heard of a shipwrecked baby but what had a rich father,—never. Sometimes I think he’s a rich English lord, or a French marquis, or a Turkish bashaw. I do hope he’s a Turk: I am very fond of Turkey.