Mrs. Clark (raising her napkin to her mouth). I wish you wouldn’t say “it don’t,” John. That isn’t grammatical!
Mr. Clark (raising a piece of potato on his knife to his mouth). It ain’t—why isn’t it?
Mrs. C. (dropping her napkin to the floor, in a voice of utter horror). Oh, John, John! How many, many times have I besought you not to use that terrible, terrible word “ain’t”?
Mr. C. (very cheerfully, raising another piece of potato on his knife). I dunno, Martha. I never was much good at mental arithmetic.
Mrs. C. (picking up her napkin, mournfully). John, don’t you remember that you promised me when we were engaged never more to utter that abominable word.
Mr. C. (cutting awkwardly at his meat). I ain’t quite sure that I made such a promise, Martha.
Mrs. C. (sharply). John Clark, you certainly did make such a promise—not once but several times!
Mr. C. (starting to raise a piece of meat to his mouth, letting it fall). But, Martha, that was only an engagement promise, and engagement promises ain’t no wise binding, so to speak, after the wedding march is ended.
Mrs. C. (angrily, again dropping her napkin). Mr. Clark, if you utter that word again I shall withdraw from the table!
Mr. C. (still cutting away awkwardly at the meat). All right, Martha. I won’t use that word no more.