Green. My dear Corinthian, how do you do? I’m glad they didn’t put you in the black ’ole.
Tom. Excuse me a moment, Green, I have an affair with this gentleman that will not admit of a moment’s delay.
Trifle. What, my friend, Brag,—honest Sir Jeremy? You musn’t hurt him, he’s a cursed good fellow.—It must be some mistake.
Green. Yes, it must be some mistake.
Kate. Entirely a mistake, I assure you—I’m extremely sorry, if that will give you any satisfaction.
Tom. Oh, if you apologize, I’m satisfied; otherwise nothing would have done, but Chalk Farm! pistols! half-past six! pooh!
Log. That’s the time of day my flower.
Green. Vell, I’m glad it’s settled without bloodshed—Chalk Farm! pistols! half-past six, and pooh!
Jerry. (to Green). Sorry to see your nose in mourning, Green—here, Waiter, take my hat. (Gives waiter the Charley’s old beaver to take care of, who brushes it up ironically, and takes it off).
Green. What say you to burying all differences in a friendly game of vhist? Trifle and I vill cut out.