“Vot should I give you?” he asked impatiently.
“Vill you treat?”
“Treat? Ger-rr oyt!” he replied with a sweeping kick at space.
“Den I von’t dance.”
“Alla right. I’ll treat you mit a coupel a waltch.”
“Is dot so? You must really tink I am swooning to dance vit you,” she said, dividing the remark between both jargons.
“Look at her, look! she is a regely getzke[4]: one must take off one’s cap to speak to her. Don’t you always say you like to dansh with me becush I am a good dansher?”
“You must tink you are a peach of a dancer, ain’ it? Bennie can dance a —— sight better dan you,” she recurred to her English.
“Alla right!” he said tartly. “So you don’ vonted?”
“O sugar! He is gettin’ mad again. Vell, who is de getzke, me or you? All right, I’ll dance vid de slob. But it’s only becuss you ask me, mind you!” she added fawningly.