Page:Poet Lore, volume 29, 1918.pdf/107



Maid (Peeps behind portiere, hesitates an instant, then goes nearer).—Poor fellow!

Mistress.—Say rather, Poor lady!

Maid.—How he adores you!

Mistress.—How unbearable he is!

Maid.—He became so excited.

Mistress (Shrugging her shoulders).—He always becomes excited in that way. I am acquainted with his manner. He comes, stands before me, looks at me; “Do you love me yet?” he says. He looks again, lifts his hand, lets it drop. Then comes: “I will kill you.” I know it all, word for word.

Maid.—It is true, that it is not the most entertaining thing.

Mistress.—It is not at all entertaining.

Maid.—Words are always repeated: but doesn’t it seem to you, gracious lady, that repetition isn’t always tiresome?

Mistress (With a grimace).—“Do you love me yet?”

Maid.—It would be better to hear: “Do you love me now?” (Steps to window.) I wonder what kind of evening we shall have?

Mistress.—You are thinking again about that fool?

Maid.—I am thinking about our guest. The one who counts the stars.

Mistress.—Yes it is true; the ninth night. (Steps to window.) It is cloudy.

Maid.—Would you wish it to be a clear night, gracious lady?

Mistress (Looking out).—Why not? Should I wish Mr. Ort any bad luck?

Maid.—A happy way to turn it off!

Mistress.—I don’t know what his wish is.

Maid.—I know what his wish is. Why should he select your garden to count the stars in?

Mistress.—A fancy, nothing more than a fancy.

Maid.—Certainty, nothing but absolute certainty.

Mistress.—And what if—if this were true (do not forget Blanche, that I do not say if it is true) if this thing were true, what if the stars should not shine?

Maid.—Oh, we can arrange that.

Mistress.—How?

Maid.—Do you want me to arrange it?