Stuart. Volapük! That’s not the one of which I speak.
Agnes. And of what, then?
Stuart. To the language which without instruction is known around the world; to the language that’s spoken by all classes, and is never out of fashion; to the language that has no dictionary; yet which possesses the most beautiful vocabulary in the universe.
Agnes. I don’t remember any such in my text-book on philology.
Stuart. It is too real to be taught in schools. Nor were you old enough to understand it had it been. I speak of the language of love.
Agnes. Of course; I suppose it is a universal tongue. (Satirically.) But so few can speak it well. Don’t you think it ought to be left to the poets?
Stuart. I love the future of the human race too much to wish that. Think of the frightful increase of bad rhymers it would cause,—and that too with the markets already overstocked.
Agnes. But would that be any worse than to see the average unromantic breadwinner make love? It’s very hard on our sex to appear sympathetic. Most men do it about as successfully as a hippopotamus would waltz.
Stuart. Aren’t you a little unfair, Mrs. Van Tromp?
Agnes. And so you think I am Mrs. Van Tromp?