She. Oh, very naturally!
He. It is a form of words that comes very readily to my lips, as you know. Annie confessed to that very superfluous and old-fashioned sentiment called love, which wasn’t in good form, I’ll admit; but in consideration for the object of her attachment, and the fact that on that particular evening I was in love myself, I managed to overlook it.
She. Very good of you, I’m sure. I hope Annie appreciated your generosity.
He. Very likely she didn’t. Your sex very seldom do appreciate masculine virtues; but Annie has a far more old-fashioned and worse vice than love. Why, the girl, in the midst of these enlightened nineteenth-century days, actually goes to the nonsensical bother of keeping a conscience! It must be more trouble to attend to, Agnes, than her aunt Wheeler’s seven pet poodles and three red-headed parrots.
She. I suppose you are right. You don’t speak from experience, though, do you?
He. Oh, no; I never had a conscience: as a boy, I preferred white mice; now I have my horses, you know.
She. And your innumerable loves.
He. If such trifles are to be taken into account.
She. Go on about Annie.