Pierrette. Here are your slippers. I put them down to warm. [She kneels beside him, as he sits before the fire and commences to slip off his shoes.]
Pierrot [singing:]
"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She will put out her tongue and grimace;
And mellow and musical June
Is pinning the stars in their place."
Isn't tea ready yet?
Pierrette. Nearly. Only waiting for the kettle to boil.
Pierrot. How cold it was in the market-place to-day! I don't believe I sang at all well. I can't sing in the cold.
Pierrette. Ah, you're like the kettle. He can't sing when he's cold either. Hurry up, Mr. Kettle, if you please.
Pierrot. I wish it were in love with the sound of its own voice.
Pierrette. I believe it is. Now it's singing like a bird. We'll make the tea with the nightingale's tongue. [She pours the boiling water into the teapot.] Come along.
Pierrot [looking into the fire]. I wonder. She had beauty, she had form, but had she soul?