Smythe.
Excuse me; I’m just going to wash my hands.
Von Rettenmayer.
Detaining him. Bardon me—one moment——
Smythe.
Eh?
Von Rettenmayer.
Dropping his voice. May I dake the liberdy of indulging in a liddle griticism on your eggcellent blay?
Smythe.
Certainly.