Enter MISS SKYLARK, carrying a small basket full of letters, followed by MISS SNARE, F.E.R.
Miss Sna. And is that basket full of Mr. Pinkey’s letters?
Miss Sky. Full.
Miss Sna. How very strange that he can never get courage to express the feelings, that you say he so beautifully describes in his epistles. What can be done to make him speak out?
Miss Sky. I suppose I must take his silence as the greatest proof of his sincerity; for all philosophers have declared that strong feelings, like great griefs, are generally dumb.
Miss Sna. Then where is the language of love?
Miss Sky. In that case the language of love is no language at all.
Miss Sna. And yet you tell me he writes so beautifully.
Miss Sky. You shall hear. (They sit; MISS SKYLARK produces a letter from her basket.) Will you have a despairing or an enthusiastic letter?
Miss Sna. Try me first with a little despair, then the enthusiasm will relish all the better afterwards.