Stella. Oh, very well! If you insist upon making yourself ridiculous, proceed. (Sits in chair, r. of table, and turns her back on Festus.)
Festus. But will you not listen to me? I cannot read to you while you sit in that position.
Stella. I told you I did not wish to hear you read: you insist. Proceed: I am not interested.
Festus. Oh, very well! My first selection shall be from the writings of one well known to fame,—a lady whose compositions have electrified the world; whose poetic effusions have lulled to sleep the cross and peevish infant, stilled the noisy nursery, and exerted an influence upon mankind of great and lasting power; one whose works are memorable for their antiquity,—the gift of genius to the budding greatness of the nineteenth century. (Producing a book from his pocket.) I will read from Mother Goose.
Stella. (Starting up.) Mother Goose!
Festus. Yes: are you acquainted with the lady?
Stella. (Sarcastically.) I have heard of her.
Festus. (Reads in very melodramatic style.)
“‘We are three brethren out of Spain, Come to court your daughter Jane.’ ‘My daughter Jane she is too young: She is not skilled in flattering tongue.’ ‘Be she young, or be she old, ’Tis for her gold she must be sold. So fare you well, my lady gay; We will return another day.’”
How do you like that?