She. Oh dear, no! I dare say you keep it as secret as you can.
He (aside). Simple suspicion is useless. What’s next? (Glances in pamphlet:) “Peevish personalities.” I will pass on to peevish personalities.—(Aloud.) Now, these men, these fellows who strut about the stage for an idle hour, who are they? This Tom Thursby, who wanted to make love to you—who is he?
She. Are you going to ask many questions? Is this catechism a long one? If it is, I may as well lay aside my shawl.
He. Who is he, I say, I insist upon knowing.
She. He’s a good enough fellow in his way.
He (sternly). He had best beware how he gets in my way.
She (aside). There’s a great change in his manner: I do not understand it.
He. And this Dick Carey—who is he? (Stalking toward her.)
She (starting up and crossing). Are you trying to frighten me by this violence?