ng flirt.

PHOEBE. La!

VALENTINE. It has somewhat diverted me to watch them go down before
you. But I know you have a kind heart, and that if there be a rapier
in your one hand there is a handkerchief in the other ready to staunch
their wounds.

PHOEBE. I have not observed that they bled much.

VALENTINE. The Blades and the like, no. But one may, perhaps.

PHOEBE (_obviously the reference is to himself_). Perhaps I may wish
to see him bleed.

VALENTINE (_grown stern_). For shame, Miss Livvy. (_Anger rises in
her, but she wishes him to proceed._) I speak, ma'am, in the interests
of the man to whom I hope to see you affianced.

(_No, she does not wish him to proceed. She had esteemed him for so
long, she cannot have him debase himself before her now._)

PHOEBE. Shall we--I have changed my mind, I consent to go home.
Please to say nothing.

VALENTINE. Nay----

PHOEBE. I beg you.

VALENTINE. No. We must have it out.

PHOEBE. Then if you must go on, do so. But remember I begged you to
desist. Who is this happy man?

(_His next words are a great shock to her._)

VALENTINE. As to who he is, ma'am, of course I have no notion. Nor, I
am sure, have you, else you would be more guarded in your conduct. But
some day, Miss Livvy, the right man will come. Not to be able to tell
him all, would it not be hard? And how could you acquaint him with
this poor sport? His face would change, ma'am, as you told him of it,
and yours would be a false face until it was told. This is what I have
been so desirous to say to you--by the right of a friend.

PHOEBE (_in a low voice but bravely_). I see.

VALENTINE (_afraid that he has hurt her_). It has been hard to say and
I have done it bunglingly. Ah, but believe me, Miss Livvy, it is not
the flaunting flower men love; it is the modest violet.

PHOEBE. The modest violet! _You_ dare to say that.

VALENTINE. Yes, indeed, and when you are acquaint with what love
really is----

PHOEBE. Love! What do you know of love?

VALENTINE (_a little complacently_). Why, ma'am, I know all about it.
I am in love, Miss Livvy.

PHOEBE (_with a disdainful inclination of the head_). I wish you happy.

VALENTINE. With a lady who was once very like you, ma'am.

(_At first_ PHOEBE _does not understand, then a suspicion of his
meaning comes to her._)

PHOEBE. Not--not--oh no.

VALENTINE. I had not meant to speak of it, but why should not I? It
will be