DOROTHY. A solid bore!
DOROTHEA. Now, Dorothy, be reasonable. Sit down
Like a well-mannered girl, or--if you must--
Crouch like a tigress there and fret and frown,
But don't break in. I think it's only just
That I--for, after all, I really am
The civilized and reputable Miss Wylde--
Should have the answering of this telegram.
Say what you will, you're nothing but a child
Who lies among the daffodils of Spring,
Lost in a book of marvels. At a glance
I know you--how you're dreaming of some king
From over the blue mountains of romance
Who'll set you on a charger black as night,
And, spurring on by dragon-haunted caves,
Come to his castle just when the sunset-light
In Fairyland floats on the girdling waves.
But kings aren't like that now. They puff cigars,
Wear bowlers and check-suits, and fill the gaps
Left between opening Parliament and bazaars
By betting on the racecourse. Or perhaps
You want some hero from a Conrad tale
Who'd stand, white-ducked, against the torrid blue
And shoot down tribes with bullets fast as hail:
But think, my dear--he simply wouldn't do.
Picture it. We should take him out to dine--
The ladies would withdraw--he'd start to speak
About old Lingard, while they passed the wine,
And go on with the story for a week.
No! We must have it clear. I much regret
This violent tug-of-war between our aims
But--I'm determined.
DOROTHY. Have you finished yet?
Right. Then you can, but I won't, marry James.
DOROTHEA. Why not?
DOROTHY. Why not? Answer my questions. One:
Does he beat time to music with his hand?