_Morris_.
Good night, Jean. My name's Morris.

_Jean_.
Good night, Morris--dear. O I must thank you.
[_She suddenly kisses him_.
Perhaps,--perhaps, you'll think that wicked of me?

_Morris_.
You wicked? O how silly!--But--good night.
[_He goes_.

_Jean_.
The man, the man! What luck! My soul, what luck!


II

JEAN _by herself, undressing_.
Yes, he's the man. Jean, my girl, you're done for,
At last you're done for, the good God be thankt.--
That was a wonderful look he had in his eyes:
'Tis a heart, I believe, that will burn marvellously!
Now what a thing it is to be a girl!
Who'ld be a man? Who'ld be fuel for fire
And not the quickening touch that sets it flaming?--
'Tis true that when we've set him well alight
(As I, please God, have set this Morris burning)
We must be serving him like something worshipt;