MRS. G. For all that, I’m Gregory Greenfinch.
BETSY. The poor man’s certainly mad, sir.
GREEN. What does she say? Mad—ah! (aside) Horrible suggestion! If I should be mad! If I should be labouring under a pleasing delusion, and mistake myself for some other individual! What if he should be me, and me he—no, he me, and me he—no, that’s not it—what, if I’m he—and me—I mean if I—that’s me—no—he and I are neither he nor me. Oh, dear! what am I saying?
MRS. G. Well, Mister What’s-your-name, if you have any desire to be shot in a gentlemanly and artistic manner—there’s a nice quiet spot at the back of the hotel, fit for the business. Just let me know when you’ve made up your mind, and I’ll be ready in five minutes to operate.
GREEN. Stop! destroyer of my peace, and confounder of my identity—stop, and hear me! Young woman retire.
Exit BETSY into room, L. 2 E., with one candle.
Hem! now, sir, I shall ask you one momentous question—Do you mean to stick to it that you’re Greenfinch?
MRS. G. Stick to it?—oh! aw—like demned wax.
GREEN. (solemnly) The world’s a cage, not wide enough for two Greenfinches like us; one of us must hop the perch.