PROLOGUE. ASSUME that we are friends. Assume A common taste for old costume, Old pictures,-books. Then dream us sitting, Us two,― in some soft-lighted room. Outside, the wind; - the "ways are mire." We, with our faces towards the fire, Silent at first, in time we glow; Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing The fancies of Detroy, Moreau; "Reveils" and "Couchers," "Balls" and "Fêtes"; Anon we glide to "crocks" and plates, Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, And half-pathetic over "states." Then I produce my Prize, in truth; - And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder, (Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth!) And so we fall to why and how Divine, at length, the fable under Thus grew the "Scenes" that follow now. THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. "Tout vient à point à qui peut attendre." SCENE. A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted with Cupids shooting at Butterflies. THE COUNTESS. THE BARON (her cousin and suitor). THE COUNTESS (looking up from her work). THE BARON (closing his book). I, Madame? No. I wait your order Stay or Go. THE COUNTESS. Which means, I think, that Go or Stay THE BARON. Excuse me, By your favour graced, My inclinations are effaced. THE COUNTESS. Or much the same. How keen you grow! |