Jones (producing an old stocking). I've just been round to my rooms to get that money—(sees Arabella)—oh, I beg your pardon.
Smith (waving an introduction). Mrs Smith—my wife. This is our sub-editor, dear—Mr Jones. (Arabella puts her hand to her heart and seems about to faint.) Why, what's the matter?
Arabella (hoarsely). Where did you get that stocking?
Smith (pleasantly). It's one he wears when he goes bicycling.
Jones. No; I misled you this afternoon, chief. This stocking was all the luggage I had when I first entered the Leamington workhouse.
Arabella (throwing herself into his arms). My son! This is your father! William—our boy!
Smith (shaking hands with Jones). How are you. I say, Arabella, then that was one of MY stockings?
Arabella (to her boy). When I saw you on the stairs you seemed to dimly remind me—
Jones. To remind you dimly, mother.
Smith. No, my boy. In future, nothing but split infinitives will appear in our paper. Please remember that.