The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.
_Gypsy Song._
SCENE.--_Interior of_ MISS MINNIE THREEGAN'S _bedroom at Simla._ MISS
THREEGAN, _in window-seat, turning over a drawerful of things._ MISS
EMMA DEERCOURT, _bosom-friend, who has come to spend the day, sitting
on the bed, manipulating the bodice of a ballroom frock and a bunch
of artificial lilies of the valley_. _Time,_ 5.30 P. M. _on a hot May
afternoon._
MISS DEERCOURT. And _he_ said: 'I shall _never_ forget this dance,'
and, of course, I said: 'Oh! how _can_ you be so silly!' Do you think he
meant anything, dear?
MISS THREEGAN. (_Extracting long lavender silk stocking from the
rubbish._) You know him better than _I_ do.
MISS D. Oh, _do_ be sympathetic, Minnie! I'm _sure_ he does. At least I
_would_ be sure if he wasn't always riding with that odious Mrs. Hagan.
MISS T. I suppose so. How _does_ one manage to dance through one's heels
first? Look at this--isn't it shameful? (_Spreads stocking-heel on open
hand for inspection_)
MISS D. Never mind that! You can't mend it. Help me with this hateful
bodice, I've run the string _so_, and I've run the string _so_, and I
can't make the fulness come right. Where would you put this? (_Waves
lilies of the valley._)
MISS T. As high up on the shoulder as possible.
MISS D. Am I quite tall enough? I know it makes May Olger look
lop-sided.
MISS T. Yes, but May hasn't your shoulders. Hers are like a hock-bottle.