de on a low step. Evening.]

BEA. How beautiful it is to sit like this,
Snow-White,--to think of much, and to say little.

BIA. Ay, it is beautiful. I shall remember
All my life long these evenings that we spent
Sitting just here, thinking together. [Pause.] Rose-Red,
It is four years today since first we met.
Did you know that?

BEA. Nay, is it?

BIA. Four years today.
I liked you from the moment that I saw you,
Beatrice!

BEA. I you, Bianca. From the very moment!
I thought you were the prettiest little girl
That I had ever seen.

BIA. I was afraid
Of you, a little, at first,--you were a Princess,
You see. But you explained that being a Princess
Was much the same as anything else. 'Twas nice,
You said, when people were nice, and when they were not nice
'Twas hateful, just the same as everything else.
And then I saw your dolls, and they had noses
All scratched, and wigs all matted, just like mine,
Which reassured me even more!--I still, though,
Think of you as a Princess; the way you do things
Is much more wonderful than the way I do them!--
The way you speak to the servants, even the way
You pick up something that you drop.

BEA. You goose!
'Tis not because I'm a princess you feel that way--
I've always thought the same thing about you!--
The way you draw your gloves on is to me
More marvelous than the way the sun comes up!

[They both burst out laughing.]

BEA. Oh, lud,--how droll we are!

BIA. Oh, I shall die
Of laughing! Think you anyone else, Rose-Red,
Was ever half so silly?

BEA. I dare wager
There be a thousand, in this realm alone,
Some even sillier!

BIA. Here comes Fidelio! [Enter Fidelio.]

BEA. Fidelio, sing to us,--there is no nightingale
Abroad tonight, save you. And the night cries
For music!

BIA. Sing, Fidelio!

FID. I have no thorn
To lean my breast on. I've been happy all day,
And happiness ever made a crow of me.

BEA. Sing, none the less,--unless you have a cold,
Which is a singer's only rock of refuge.
You have no cold, or you would not be happy.
So sing.

FID. [Singing.] "Oh, little rose-tree, bloom!
Summer is nearly over.
The dahlias bleed and the phlox is seed,
Nothing's left of the clover,
And the path of the poppy no one knows,--
I would blossom if I were a rose!

Summer for all your guile
Will brown in a week to autumn,
And l