Violet [to Whetstone, who has moved until he forms a right angle
with Bluegrass and Violet].
Move no further. Thy shadow keeps no pace with thee, and fear might well oppress a wondering maid less mathematical. Ninon, take and reflect upon yon shadow. ’Tis thy sum total, and a happy one.
Enter Fopdoodle.
Fopdoodle.
Dear Miss Violet, I’m cured. The sheep’s blood is all out of me. Pa says I may bring you home with me; and Ma says I am a lamb with a golden fleece, but I must not alarm them by bleating—ba-bah. I have been badly off—but I assure you I am shorn of my malady. There is no longer any impediment of speech to our happiness. Oh, how I want to be a noble husband! Dear Miss Violet, may I, may I address you up so high, and I down so low? May I? May I?
Violet.
Thou hast too many Mays in thy calendar, but thou mayst have a cold March ere thou comest to a timely May.
Fopdoodle.
Star of Violet, come down to the earth. No, no. O earth of black, go up to the star of Violet. Yes, yes; but the earth can’t do it. What the deuce is the proper thing? Well, well—
Violet.