Bijah. Phew! pooh—ah, choh! (Sneezes.) What are you trying to do, smother a fellow? Giving us the great Othello act, with me as Desdemona! (Looks at Polly.) Why, no!—yes, it is, Polly—Polly Primrose.
Polly. Bijah Bright! Well, I declare!
Bijah (taking both of Polly's hands). Why, the sight of you is good for a pair of diseased optics.
Polly. But why are you here in this house?
Bijah. It must have been the magnetism of your bright eyes, Polly. When I was marching along, I felt so drawn towards this house, sez I to myself, sez I, here, Bijah, is the place to find rest for your weary bones, and rations for an aching void. And, behold, I find you, my long-lost treasure. (Tries to embrace Polly, who steps aside.) Ah, Polly Primrose, the way you've played tag with that vital organ of my being, the heart that beats for you alone, would frighten any other man, but I've jest made up my mind,—
“A sweetheart's a sweetheart,
As all the world knows,
And Polly's my Polly,
Wherever she goes.”
Polly. Don't be so sure of that, Mr. Bright. Don't flatter yourself that you are the only man that calls me, “My Polly.”
Bijah. Let me but find him. He'll wish he hadn't been born.
Polly (laughing). Same Bijah Bright. Don't be worried (coquettishly), for I think you will find me the same Polly.
Bijah (taking both her hands). Wal, now, that's something like. When the temperature of your society is at zero, it makes my very blood congeal.