MISS JOHNS (impulsively). Oh, Mr. Broxopp, is that IT?
BROXOPP (proudly). My boy Jack—Eton and Oxford—when he was a baby. You’ve seen the posters, of course.
MISS JOHNS. Who hasn’t, Mr. Broxopp?
BROXOPP. I always say I owe half my success to Jack. He was the first Broxopp baby—and now there are a million of them. I don’t know whether—er—you——?
MISS JOHNS (coyly). Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Broxopp. I’m afraid I was born a little too soon.
BROXOPP. A pity, a pity. But no doubt your relations——
MISS JOHNS. Oh yes, my nephews and nieces—they are all Broxopp babies. And then I have always felt specially interested in Broxopp’s Beans, Mr. Broxopp, because I live in (archly) Bloomsbury, Mr. Broxopp.
BROXOPP. Really? When my wife (he looks towards the door in case she should be choosing that very opportune moment to come in), to whom I owe all my success—when my wife and I were first married——
MISS JOHNS (eagerly). I know, Mr. Broxopp. You see, that’s what makes me so interested. I live at Number 26, too, in the floor below.
BROXOPP. Now, now, do you really? Well, I declare. That’s very curious.