“A note—oh—here’s one ready.”
“Ah! In love I plainly see,
She’s taken her degree,
What man knows woman’s art?
Faith—what man knows a part?”
And he was gone.
She wore a very pleased expression of feature for two minutes after Figaro had departed. But then she justifiably pouted, for Dr. Bartolo came into the room, feeble in all his parts but his eyes, which were glancing about like sharp knives. Figaro. He was doubtful of Figaro. And he was sure of Rosina’s simplicity.
“What man knows woman’s art?
Faith—what man knows a part?”
So he thought he would question her.
“Pray what brought the barber here so early—he spoke to you?”
“He always does! And chatted of a thousand things—the latest fashions from Paris—and—and other things.”
“And the answer of your note! No quibbling—the note, the piece of music you dropped this morning from the balcony? You blush—how came that finger marked with ink?”
“A burn—I used the ink to cure it!”