Orphea. Oh, Katie! You?
Kate. Yes, me, dear coz.
Orphea. But then your hair, and voice!
Kate. I'll train my voice to mouth out short, thick words,
As Bosh! Trash! Fudge! Rot! And I'll cultivate
An Abernethian, self-assertive style,
That men may think there is a deal more in
My solid head than e'er comes out.
My hair I'll cut short off.
[She looses down her abundant brown hair, and passes her hands through it caressingly.
Ah, woman's simple pride! these tresses brown
Must all be shorn. Like to Godiva fair,
Whose heart, so true, forgot itself, to serve
Her suffering kind; I, too, must make
My hair an offering to my sex; a protest strong
'Gainst man's oppression.
[!-- Begin Page 127 --] Oh, wavy locks, that won my father's praise,
I must be satisfied to cut ye off,
And keep ye in a drawer 'till happier times,
When I again may wear ye as a crown:
Perchance a bang.
Orphea. 'Twould, perhaps, be best to wear some as moustache.
Kate. The very thing! then whiskers won't be missed.
Orphea. But oh, your mannish garb! How dreadful, Kate!
Kate. True; but it must be done, and you must help.