But see, my mistress, something is coming up ze orchard path.
Violet [intently observing].
’Tis distant, and yet ’tis bigger than a man’s hand. Why, Ninon, ’tis a man. How near wouldst thou say he is?
Ninon.
Courage, my mistress! he has ze fleet pace of ze lover.
Enter Ideal.
Ideal.
Dear Violet, in hastening by the orchard path to meet thee ’neath thy window, I was detained by thy sweet sisters of the field, which sprang along my path in myriad gayety, while I in blissful fantasy did win them; and here, accompanied with my love, I tender thee this bunch of golden-hearted violets.
Violet.
Why, ’tis my Ideal! I’ll ne’er forsake thee; for were I to forsake my Ideal, that which were forsaken were better than that which were taken. To thee I’ll swift descend, and, descending, I’ll ascend.