MR. JOUR. I am not speaking of that. I ask you what it is that I am now saying to you. That which I am now speaking to you, what is it? MRS. JOUR. Rubbish. MR. JOUR. No! no! I don't mean that. What we both speak; the language we are speaking this very moment. MRS. JOUR. Well? MR. JOUR. How is it called? MRS. JOUR. It is called whatever you like to call it. MR. JOUR. It is prose, you ignorant woman. MRS. JOUR. Prose? MR. JOUR. Whatever is prose is not verse, and whatever is not verse is prose. There! you see what it is to study. (_To_ NICOLE) And you, do you even know what you must do to say _u_? NIC. Eh? What? MR. JOUR. Yes; what do you do when you say _u_? NIC. What I do? MR. JOUR. Say _u_ a little to try. NIC. Well, _u_. MR. JOUR. What is it you do? NIC. I say _u_. MR. JOUR. Yes; but when you say _u_, what is it you do? NIC. I do what you ask me to do. MR. JOUR. Oh! What a strange thing it is to have to do with dunces! You pout your lips outwards, and bring your upper jaw near your lower jaw like this, _u_; I make a face; _u_. Do you see? NIC. Yes, that's beautiful. MRS. JOUR. It's admirable! MR. JOUR. What would you say then if you had seen _o_, and _da, da_, and _fa, fa_? MRS. JOUR. What is all this absurd stuff? NIC. And what are we the better for all this? MR. JOUR. I have no patience with such ignorant women. MRS. JOUR. Believe me, pack off all those people with their ridiculous fooleries. NIC. And particularly that great scraggy fencing master, who fills the whole place with dust. MR. JOUR. Goodness me! The fencing master seems to set your teeth on edge. Come here, and I will show you at once your senseless impertinence. (_He asks for two foils, and gives one to_ NICOLE.) Here, reason demonstrative the line of the body. When you thrust in quart, you have only to do so; and, when you thrust in tierce, only to do so! That is the way never to be killed; and is it not a fine thing to be quite safe when one fights against anybody? There, thrust at me a little to try. NIC. Well, what? (NICOLE _gives him several thrusts_) MR. JOUR. Gently! Hold! Oh! Softly. Deuce take the wench! NIC: You tell me to thrust at you. MR. JOUR. Yes; but you thrust in tierce before thrusting at me in quart, and you haven't the patience to wait till I parry. MRS. JOUR. You are crazy, husband, with all your fads; and this has come upon you since you have taken it into your head to frequent the gentlefolk. MR. JOUR. By frequenting the gentlefolk I show my judgment. It is surely better than keeping company with your citizens. MRS. JOUR. Yes: there is much good to be got by frequenting your nobility, and you have done a noble stroke of business with that fine count with whom you are so wrapped up.