Tramp. I’m a man.
Clytie. What ’s that ? Is it alive?
Tramp. Well, in a manner o’ speakin’, lady.
Clytie. (Flying up to him) Can it love?
Tramp. Oh yus. Reg’lar butterfly.
Clytie. How thrilling you are: Why do you have black down on your face? And—oh, it pricks!
Tramp. Down! That ’s scrub. ’Aven’t shaved for a fortnight, I ’aven’t.
Clytie. There ’s a fragrance in the air about you.
Tramp. Stale baccy—that ’s what it is.
Clytie. So delicious—so new!
Tramp. (Throwing cap again) Shoo, yer ’ussy!
Clytie. (Flying away) Chase me, chase me!
Tramp. Oh, you baggage, you.
Clytie. (Approaching) Let me come near you. You are so unusual.
Tramp. I’ve met the likes of you afore, I ’ave. (Catches her hands) I’ve ’eld ’er ’ands like this, and told ’er if she’d smile at me I’d let ’er go—and then I let ’er go. Better for me and better for ’er, if I’d killed ’er straight off. (Lets her go) ’Ere, sling yer ’ook. I don’t want yer.
Clytie. (Flying away to mirror) How strange you are!
Tramp. Oh, yer strumpet, you, yer painted ’arlot!
Clytie. (To him again) Say it again, say it again, so strange, so coarse—I
Tramp. Garn—yer white-faced ’arridan! Isn’t that enough for yer?
