PEGGY.
You couldn't well ask girls to do it; besides, it's your party.
QUECKETT.
It is not my party, and it is your lark pudding.
PEGGY.
It may be our lark—but it's your pudding. [Tyler enters still much astonished, and with another bill.]
QUECKETT.
[Taking the bill.] What's that?
TYLER.
Sich a lot of champagne's come, sir!