Gloria (whispering loudly). Bart, Dill, Bart!
Dill. Br ... butler.
Hargrave. That settles it. I cannot marry a butler posing as a gentleman. (Acts as if about to show them out.)
Gloria. There is nothing in the Bible which says anything against marrying a butler, Mr. Hargrave. Pharaoh's chief adviser was a butler, as you yourself know. (There is no Bible to be seen and she stares at Hargrave deprecatingly.)
Hargrave (eyeing Dill as if choking would be a pleasure). And Pharaoh hung him by the neck, if I am not mistaken.
Dill. The baker, sir, the baker. Very mixing indeed, sir.
Hargrave. As God is my baker—I mean my maker—I swear that I will have nothing further to do with the case. Under the most favorable conditions I can imagine my marrying a butler, or even a baker, for that matter, but with due respect to you, Miss Gibbs, I must (glances at cuff) decline to marry a butler, or even Pharaoh himself, to an idiot. The laws of hygiene govern that.
Dill. Sir!
Hargrave. My son has already informed me, Miss Gibbs, that you are an idiot, and I for one refuse to perform at any ceremony in which you are the principal.
Gloria (opening satchel). Mediocrity may be the foundation of my family, sir, but idiocy is not. However, I was prepared for that. I have found your son something of a clever idiot himself, and first accurate deductions led me to the belief that his father would be also. (Pulls out paper.) I have here complete and accurate credentials to certify that I have never suffered from Christian Science, Mental Science, Physical Science, Woman Suffrage, Eugenics, or any of the other seven deadly diseases so prevalent amongst my sex. I have also fully recorded a memorandum of the character and chief events of my life, including ventilation, vivisection, vaccination, marriage—