She. Yes.
She. No. You've always loved me—yes—but you don't love me now—no—not since that rose-face encountered your glance—no.
He. Minikin!
She. If I could move about the way she can—
if I had feet—
dainty white feet which could twinkle and twirl—
I'd dance you so prettily
you'd think me a sun butterfly—
if I could let down my hair
and prove you it's longer than larch hair—
if I could raise my black brows
or shrug my narrow shoulders,
like a queen or a countess—
if I could turn my head, tilt my head,
this way and that, like a swan—
ogle my eyes, like a peacock,
till you'd marvel,
they're green, nay, violet, nay, yellow, nay, gold—
if I could move, only move
just the moment of an inch—
you would see what I could be!
It's a change, it's a change,
you men ask of women!
He. A change?
She. You're eye-sick, heart-sick
of seeing the same foolish porcelain thing,
a hundred years old,
a hundred and fifty,
and sixty, and seventy—
I don't know how old I am!
He. Not an exhalation older than I—not an inhalation younger! Minikin?
She. Manikin?
He. Will you listen to me?
She. No!
He. Will you listen to me?