MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, if heaven would only send some unsuspecting imbecile to taste my paflouka for me—(PHIL backs on from grape arbor—looking to see if he's being followed.) Heaven has sent it hither. (She steps PHIL's way. As he bumps into her, he starts.) Hello!
PHIL: (After start.) Hello.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Why, what's the matter?
PHIL: Oh, I'm faint—for food.
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Aside to others.) Oh, it's a shame to do it. (To
PHIL.) How would you like to "paflouka" with me?
PHIL: (After business.) No—before I do anything else, I must eat.
MRS. SCHUYLER: To "paflouka" is to eat.
PHIL: Well—hurry—let's do it.
MRS. SCHUYLER: (To waiter.) Now, Mousta place my "rakoush" before him.
PHIL: (As waiter places soup and roll before him.) Oh, it looks like soup.