MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now that I think you must be a man of _our_ world?

TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your mother's heart to know that your daughter will be in good company, I think I can give you that comfort.

MOTHER. Is that all you can give me?

(The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly he takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and is immensely relieved thereby. He comes back to the MOTHER with a beaming face.)

TALKER. Madame, I will tell you a story. (Holding up his hand to stop any expostulation) No, quite a short one. Once on a time there was a certain n.o.ble gentleman, a baron of estates and family. Conceiving himself to be in love, he dared to put it to the touch to win or lose it all. I regret to say that he lost it all. In a fit of melancholy he abjured society, cursed all women and took to the road. A pleasant melancholy gentleman. I made him a duke.

MOTHER (eagerly, indicating the door out of which the duke has just gone). You mean he really is--

TALKER. We will name no names, madame. I doubt not I have no right to speak of him to another. It is just a story. (Putting his pipe to his lips) Cuck-oo!

MOTHER. Poor child, she is not happy here. We live so quietly; we have no neighbours. I have wondered what to do--it seemed that I could do so little. If only I could be sure--(Suddenly) Master Johannes, do you like the look of this house with its little stream opposite, and the green bank running down, on which one may lie on one's back and look up at the sky?

TALKER. Did we not single it out above all others by having our bread and cheese outside it?

MOTHER. Will you all stay with me for a little? I think I can find room for you. Before I can lend my daughter to you, I feel that I must know something of you. I think that is the best way, is it not? (With a very friendly smile) The cider is good, you know.

TALKER (rising and boning). Madame, we need say no more.

[The other three come in. The DAUGHTER has found from somewhere a cap with a red feather in it. They stand in a row opposite the MOTHER, and to the FIDDLER'S accompaniment sing a merry song.]

TOGETHER. The cuckoo comes in April, Sings his song in May, Changes his tune in the middle of June, And then he flies away.

HE. The cuckoo comes when April's here-- He is not very good, I fear.

He goes and takes another nest-- Perhaps he does it for the best.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!...

SHE. When April's over he begins Repenting of his former sins; From tree to tree he takes his way, But this is all he finds to say: Cuckoo! Cuckoo!...

HE. By June he gets a trifle flat, Which is not to be wondered at, And critical observers note A huskiness about the throat.

(Huskily) Cuckoo! Cuckoo!...

SHE. Alas! he does not stay for long, But other birds take up the song Of summer gently following The wild and happy days of Spring.

Cuckoo!

(The TALKER conducts with his pipe in his hand, and hums "La, la, la!"

to himself. He pipes the chorus with them. At the conclusion they all bow or curtsey deeply to the MOTHER.)

MOTHER (half laughing, half crying). Oh!

TALKER (suddenly and dramatically, holding up his hand). Listen!

EVERYBODY. What?

TALKER. Didn't I hear somebody say "cider"?

(It is eight days later when we see them again. The DAUGHTER is at the spinet, playing an accompaniment to the song which she and the SINGER are sharing for the moment.)

SHE. He does not know I love him, He does not care; The sky is blue above him, The road is there For those who dare-- Alas! why should he care?

HE. She does not know I love her, She does not know; The sky is blue above her, The soft winds blow Where violets grow-- Alas! how should she know?

TOGETHER. Yet those who sing About the Spring All say it should bring Two lovers together!

Oh where, oh where Will you find a pair So matched as you and I, love?

Come rain or shine, Come wet or fine, If you are mine What matter the weather?

Oh take my hand And kiss me and Confess that you are my love.

HE. She does not know I love her-- Ah yes, she knows; The sky is blue above her, The buds disclose The first wild rose-- Ah yes, she knows, she knows!

SHE. He cares not that I love him-- Ah yes, he cares; The sky is blue above him, A thrush declares The world is theirs-- Ah yes, how much he cares!

TOGETHER. For those who sing, etc.

DAUGHTER (looking up at him). It is a pretty song.

SINGER. The words, I thought, were good. I liked the words.

DAUGHTER. Who thinks of the words of a song if the tune be pretty?

SINGER. But if the heart of the singer be in the words?

DAUGHTER (suddenly, as, she gets up). Tell me about Chloe.

SINGER (surprised). Chloe?

DAUGHTER. Or whatever her name was.

SINGER (hurt). I am not sure that I understand this conversation.

DAUGHTER. I mean the first one.

SINGER. I am not sure that I like this conversation.

DAUGHTER. She was the first, wasn't she--the one who made you renounce the world and take to the road?

SINGER (stiffly). Her name was not Chloe.

DAUGHTER (coaxingly). What was it?

SINGER (annoyed). Why rake up the dead ashes of the past? I was but a boy. It was five months ago. Besides, her name was Penelope.

DAUGHTER. You still remember it, though it was so long ago?

SINGER. I could have pretended to have forgotten, if it would have pleased you better.