Tramp. I’m a man.
Clytie. What’s that? Is it alive?
Tramp. Well, in a manner o’ speakin’, lady.
Clytie. (Flying up to him) Can it love?
Tramp. Oh yus. Reg’lar butterfly.
Clytie. How thrilling you are! Why do you have black down on your face? And—oh, it pricks!
Tramp. Down! that’s scrub. ’Aven’t shaved for a fortnight, I ’aven’t.
Clytie. There’s a fragrance in the air about you.
Tramp. Stale baccy—that’s what it is.
Clytie. So delicious—so new!