_Patty._ Your art? Yes: your art is driving horses. _Bounce._ But I ain't talking _h_about 'orses. _H_i said 'art; this 'art which 'eaves _h_in my bosom with fond _h_aspiration. _Patty._ Nonsense! Once for all, Mr. John Bounce, I will never marry a man who aspirates in such a shocking manner as you do. No, sir. The man whose bride I shall become must be capable of declaring his love in grammatical, pronounceably correct English. He must fall gracefully upon his knees before me, and, in accents too wild to be resisted, say, "Patty, my heart"—not _art_, Mr. Bounce; I'll have no artful man—"is at your feet." Not _hat_. Hats are for heads, not feet, Mr. Bounce. When you can do that, speak: till then a gulf as wide as that which once yawned between Felix Frederick Freelove, and his Araminta Augusta Violetta, separates us. [_Exit_ R. _Bounce._ My _h_eyes! Who's _H_araminta _H_augusta? _H_i don't know 'er. Well, this _h_is _h_extraordinary. _H_and _h_i thought my language was so _h_intelligent! Well, Miss Patty, though _h_i love you with _h_all my 'art, _h_i'm not _h_a-going to lose no flesh on your _h_account. Well, _h_after _h_all, women _h_are a good deal like 'orses; _h_if they find you don't notice their capers, but keep cool, they're very _h_apt to settle down _h_into a _h_easy trot. 'Ere's master and missus. _H_i'll make myself scarce. (_Exit_ L. _Enter_, R., MR. GRAYLOCK, _with a plate containing nuts and raisins balanced on each hand, followed by_ MRS. GRAYLOCK.) _Mr. G._ Now, my dear, for a refreshing season of calm and tranquil delight. Here, beneath our own vine and fig-tree, metaphorically speaking, we will meditate, converse, and—and eat our nuts and raisins. (_Sits in chair_ L. _of table_). _Mrs. G._ (_placing ottoman beside him_, L.). Yes, indeed; what could be more delightful? (_Sits. He hands her a plate. They eat._) How grateful I should be—and I am—that I have a dear husband, so fond of spending his evenings with me, instead of leaving me for a stupid club, or the society of a billiard-room! It's a shame, a disgrace to married life, the manner in which some husbands conduct themselves. _Mr. G._ Ah, my dear, you were a wise young woman, when from the multitude of your admirers, young, giddy fellows, you turned to make choice of a staid, middle-aged, experienced individual to guide your youthful steps. Ah, my dear, yours was a wise choice. Do I not worship you? Do I not dote upon you? Is not every wish of your heart gratified? _Mrs. G._ Yes, indeed. No: there's one wish yet ungratified. Alice— _Mr. G._ What! you're not going to bring up that troublesome subject again? _Mrs. G._ Again and again, until you give your consent to her marriage with Mr. Cheeny.