Salome.
[Going to him.] Oh, Major Tarver, let me pass; [holding his coat firmly] let me pass, I say.
Tarver.
Unless you push me, never!
Sheba.
Spare me this scene, Mr. Darbey.
[Darbey follows Sheba across the room.
Tarver.
To a man in my condition love is either a rapid and fatal malady, or it is an admirable digestive. Accept me, and my merry laugh once more rings through the Mess Room. Reject me, and my collection of vocal music, loose and in volumes, will be brought to the hammer, and the bird, as it were, will trill no more.
Salome.