LARRY. Well, you are a nice infant to be let loose in this country! Fancy the potcheen going to your head like that!
BROADBENT. Not to my head, I think. I have no headache; and I could speak distinctly. No: potcheen goes to the heart, not to the head. What ought I to do?
LARRY. Nothing. What need you do?
BROADBENT. There is rather a delicate moral question involved. The point is, was I drunk enough not to be morally responsible for my proposal? Or was I sober enough to be bound to repeat it now that I am undoubtedly sober?
LARRY. I should see a little more of her before deciding.
BROADBENT. No, no. That would not be right. That would not be fair. I am either under a moral obligation or I am not. I wish I knew how drunk I was.
LARRY. Well, you were evidently in a state of blithering sentimentality, anyhow.
BROADBENT. That is true, Larry: I admit it. Her voice has a most extraordinary effect on me. That Irish voice!
LARRY [sympathetically]. Yes, I know. When I first went to London I very nearly proposed to walk out with a waitress in an Aerated Bread shop because her Whitechapel accent was so distinguished, so quaintly touching, so pretty—
BROADBENT [angrily]. Miss Reilly is not a waitress, is she?