Bijah. Ha, ha, Polly, that wee brain of yours isn't an idle one. It won't do for us to separate, but make a stock company and spring our poetic effusions upon the public together. (Enter Roger, without disguise.)
Roger. Is Miss Dorothy at home?
Bijah. Why—Mr. Roger here?
Polly. Land of living! Where did you come from?
Roger. Was marching by; could not resist the temptation of a stolen glance at Dorothy.
Bijah. Have just given her your letter, and she is now writing one in answer.
Roger. But I must see her.
Bijah. Then I won't wait for that answer. And, as I know the sensations of a fluttering heart, I'll step out and let you flutter alone.
Roger. All right, Bijah. Where are you going?