(You should have an ordinary wooden elbow-chair and a print wrapper within easy reach. Come on crouching, with an air of tigerish anticipation.)
'Tis he! Can I mistake the clustered curls
Upon his hated hyacinthine head?
Have they not wiled from me the fickle heart
Of perjured Bandolina! There, he stands
Before my window, where a winsome form,
Rotating slow with measured self-display,
Has caught his errant eye. Now, demi-siren,
[Hands extended in passionate invocation.
Make languorous those lustrous crystal orbs!
Wreathe, waxen arms, and lure him in, to me!
So—once again!—he falters—he is Mine!
[Savage exultation, with eyebrows.
Let me be calm.
(Self-restraint, indicated by violent heaving of shirt-front.)
Good morning, Sir, to you.
I pray you—
(with a forced sickly smile)