Baby Van Rensselaer [coldly and suspecting flippancy]: Ah, indeed—are you a billionaire?
Dear Jones: No; I’m an architect.
Baby Van Rensselaer [in confusion]: Oh, I’m sure I beg your pardon—
Dear Jones: You needn’t. I shouldn’t be at all ashamed to be a billionaire.
Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, of course not—I didn’t mean that—
Dear Jones [unguardedly]: Well, if it comes to that; I’m not ashamed of my architecture either.
Baby Van Rensselaer [calmly]: Indeed? I have never seen any of it.
Dear Jones: You sit here, I think. This is your card with the little lady in the powdered wig—a cherubic Madame de Staël.
Baby Van Rensselaer: And this is yours with a Cupid in a basket—a nineteenth century Moses.