_The Confidante_. Well, I wouldn't lose heart--with the moon drawin'
on to the full, as it is!

_A Seaside Siren_ (_conscious of a dazzling complexion--to a
suburban Ulysses_). I wish I could get brown--I think it's so awfully
becoming--but I never can!

_Ulysses_. Some people _are_ like that. On'y turn _red_, you know,
specially the nose--catches 'em _there_, y'know!

_The Siren_. I'm obliged to you, I'm sure! Is that meant to be
personal?

_Ulysses_. Oh, I wasn't thinking of _you_ when I said that.

_The Siren_. You're very complimentary. But do tell me--am _I_ like
that? (_She presents her face for his inspection_.) Candidly, now.

_Ulysses_ (_conscientiously_). Well, I don't notice anything
particular--but, you see, colours don't show up by moonlight.

[_The Siren coldly intimates that her Mother will be
waiting supper for them._

_An Habitué_. Some people will tell yer, now, that Margit's _vulgar_.
They must be precious 'ard to please, that's all! I'm as partickler
as what most are, and I can assure yer if there was anythink o' _that_
sort about, I shouldn't come down 'ere reglar, season after season,
like I do!