HADDA PADDA. You must not ask me that.

HERBORIST. Smile, and I will grant the dandelion its life.

HADDA PADDA. Now I am smiling.

HERBORIST [thrusts her hand into the bag]. Tell me of your joy,
young woman. Each time you give an answer you grant a flower its
life.--

Of all things,--what is the softest you have ever felt?

HADDA PADDA. The hair on my cheek when my lover stroked it.

HERBORIST [taking a plant from the bag]. Now you have granted the
yarrow its life.--Tell me of your joy, young woman. What made your
hand so pretty?

HADDA PADDA. Happiness made my hand so pretty. It has smoothed
back the hair from the most beautiful forehead.

HERBORIST [taking out another plant]. Now you have granted the
catch-fly its life.--What cast the shade of sorrow in your eyes?

HADDA PADDA. Now you are not asking me of joy. Now I will not
answer.

HERBORIST [shows her a new plant, fondling the flower]. Why shall
the violet die?