_Patience._ Thank you: I do not require it. _Job._ Then, why did you send for it? _Augusta_ (_at piano, reading music-titles as they turn the leaves_). "Wouldn't you like to know?" _Job_ (_turning round_). Eh? Why, there's the whole lot of 'em! _Maria._ No: that won't do. That's too sentimental. _Patience._ They sent for it, not I. You can take it back. _Job._ O Patience! why are you so cold to one who loves you to distraction? Why— _Maria_ (_reading title_). "Lubly Cynthia." That's good. _Job_ (_turning round_). Plague take those girls! You know that for love of you I've left my home, Patience, and have donned the apron of a waiter, and become a patient waiter for you, Patience. Oh! when shall my love be rewarded with the possession of that plump white hand? _Jane._ "When Johnny comes marching home." That's lovely. _Job_ (_turning round_). Eh? Oh, bother them girls! _Patience._ Don't mind them, Job. They do not dream of our attachment. They do not dream you are my— _Maria._ "Curly little bow-wow." _Job_ (_turning round_). There, now! What's the use of trying to talk where them girls are? Patience, dear Patience, meet me, meet me— _Augusta._ "Meet me by moonlight alone." _Job._ Oh them girls! Meet me after tea in the woodshed, while I am cleaning knives. We can commune: we can exchange vows: we can— _Maria._ "Root hog or die." _Patience._ Yes, Job, I will be there. But be secret. If our attachment is discovered, Mrs. Candor will instantly dismiss you. And it's so romantic to have a lover in disguise! I know you love me, Job. Have patience. _Job._ I mean to have her. Don't I love you better than all else in the world? better than— _Augusta._ "My old Aunt Sally." _Job._ Eh? (_Aside._) I believe they are doing that on purpose. (_Aloud._) Farewell, Patience! I must tear myself away from your beloved presence. My heart— _Maria._ "Oh! my heart goes pit-a-pat." _Augusta._ "Somebody's coming, I'll not tell who." _Jane._ "Let me kiss him for his mother." _Lucy._ "Single gentleman, how do you do?" _Job._ Eh? Oh, I'm pretty well. _Maria._ Oh! nobody's talking to you, Job. Go about your business. _Job._ Thank you. I don't hanker for your society, do I? A parcel of harum-scarum girls, who are no more to be compared to— _Lucy_ (_reads_). "The girl I left behind me." _Job._ Oh, gracious! can they suspect? (_Starts off_ R., _drops the dictionary, and stumbles over it; then picks it up, and exit_ R.) _Maria._ He's stumbled over the hard words too. _Bessie._ There's nothing here we can sing. _Maria._ Oh! here's one: "Upidee." _Lucy._ Oh, that's nice! (_One of the girls strikes the piano, and all join in chorus of "Upidee." At the conclusion, three loud thumps are heard outside._)