THE PHEASANT-HEN Beneath foliage—­not so thick but a sunbeam may glide in!—­I make my home.  I am descended, however, from elsewhere.  From whence?  From Persia?  China?  None can tell!  But of one thing we may be certain:  that I was meant to shimmer in the blue among the fragrant gum-trees of the East, and not to be chased through brambles by a hound!—­Am I the ancient Phoenix? or the sacred Chinese hen?  Whence was I brought to this land?  And how brought?  And by whom?  History is not explicit on the point, and leaves us a splendid choice.  Wherefore I choose to have been born in Colchis, from whence I came on Jason’s fist.  I am all gold.  Perhaps I was the Fleece!

PATOU
You?

THE PHEASANT-HEN
The Pheasant!

PATOU
[Politely correcting her.] Pheasant-hen.

THE PHEASANT-HEN I refer to my race, for which I stand, by token of my crimson shield.  Yes, my ancient fate of being a dead leaf beside a ruby, having appeared to me one day too distinctly dull a lot, I stole his dazzling plumage from the male.  A good thing, too, for it becomes me so much better!  The golden tippet, as I wear it, curves and shimmers.  The emerald epaulette acquires a dainty grace.  I have made of a mere uniform a miracle of style!

CHANTECLER
She is distractingly lovely, so much is certain!

PATOU
He is never going to fall in love with a woman dressed as a man!

THE BLACKBIRD
[Who has again hopped down from his cage.] I must go and tell the
Guinea-hen that a golden bird has blown into town.  She’ll have a fit! 
She will invite her! [Off.]

CHANTECLER
So you come to us from the East, like the Dawn?

THE PHEASANT-HEN
My life has the picturesque disorder of a poem.  If I came from the East,
it was by way of Egypt.

PATOU
[Aside, heart-broken.] A gypsy, on top of the rest!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [To CHANTECLER, tossing and twisting her head so that the colours ripple at her throat.] Have you noticed these two shades?  They are our own especial colours—­the Dawn’s and mine!  Princess of the underbrush, queen of the glade, I am pleased to wear the yellow locks of an adventuress.  Dreamy and homesick for my unknown home, I choose my palaces among the rustling flags and withered irises that fringe the pool.  I dote upon the forest, and when it smells in autumn of dead leaves and decaying wood—­

PATOU
[In consternation.] She is mad!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Wild as a tree-bough in a southerly gale, I tremble, flutter, spend
myself in motion, till a vast languor overtakes me—­

CHANTECLER [Who for a minute or so has been letting his wing hang, now begins slowly circling about the PHEASANT-HEN, in the manner of the BLACKBIRD aping him, with a very gentle, throaty.] Coa—­[The PHEASANT-HEN looks at him.  Believing himself encouraged, he takes up again louder, while circling about her.] Coa—­