PHOEBE. Sir, sir! VALENTINE. No skulker, ma'am, I hope, but gradually turning into a grumpy, crusty, bottle-nosed old bachelor. PHOEBE. Oh, Mr. Brown! VALENTINE. And all because you will not walk across the street with me. PHOEBE. Indeed, sir, you must marry--and I hope it may be some one who is really like a garden. VALENTINE. I know but one. That reminds me, Miss Phoebe, of something I had forgot. (_He produces a paper from his pocket._) 'Tis a trifle I have wrote about you. But I fear to trouble you. (PHOEBE'S _hands go out longingly for it._) PHOEBE (_reading_). 'Lines to a Certain Lady, who is Modestly unaware of her Resemblance to a Garden. Wrote by her servant, V. B.' (_The beauty of this makes her falter. She looks up._) VALENTINE (_with a poet's pride_). There is more of it, ma'am. PHOEBE (_reading_) The lilies are her pretty thoughts, Her shoulders are the may, Her smiles are all forget-me-nots, The path 's her gracious way, The roses that do line it are Her fancies walking round, 'Tis sweetly smelling lavender In which my lady's gowned. (MISS PHOEBE _has thought herself strong, but she is not able to read such exquisite lines without betraying herself to a lover's gaze._) VALENTINE (_excitedly_). Miss Phoebe, when did you cease to care for me? PHOEBE (_retreating from him but clinging to her poem_). You promised not to ask. VALENTINE. I know not why you should, Miss Phoebe, but I believe you love me still! (MISS PHOEBE _has the terrified appearance of a detected felon._) (_MISS SUSAN returns._) MISS SUSAN. You are talking so loudly. VALENTINE. Miss Susan, does she care for me still? MISS SUSAN (_forgetting her pride of sex_). Oh, sir, how could she help it. VALENTINE. Then by Gad, Miss Phoebe, you shall marry me though I have to carry you in my arms to the church. PHOEBE. Sir, how can you! (_But_ MISS SUSAN _gives her a look which means that it must be done if only to avoid such a scandal. It is at this inopportune moment that_ MISS HENRIETTA _and_ MISS FANNY _are announced._) MISS HENRIETTA. I think Miss Willoughby has already popped in. PHOEBE (_with a little spirit_). Yes, indeed. MISS SUSAN (_a mistress of sarcasm_). How is Mary, Fanny? She has not been to see us for several minutes. MISS FANNY (_somewhat daunted_). Mary is so partial to you, Susan. VALENTINE. Your servant, Miss Henrietta, Miss Fanny. MISS FANNY. How do you do, sir? MISS HENRIETTA (_wistfully_). And how do you find Miss Livvy, sir? VALENTINE. I have not seen her, Miss Henrietta. MISS HENRIETTA. Indeed! MISS FANNY. Not even you? VALENTINE. You seem surprised? MISS FANNY. Nay, sir, you must not say so; but really, Phoebe! PHOEBE. Fanny, you presume! VALENTINE (_puzzled_). If one of you ladies would deign to enlighten me. To begin with, what is Miss Livvy's malady? MISS HENRIETTA. He does not know? Oh, Phoebe.