Mr. Cadney Rowser. A button'ole, eh? Think I'm not classy enough as I am?
Miss D'Aut. I don't think anyone could accuse you of not being "classy;" still a flower would just give the finishing-touch.
Mr. C. R. (modestly). Rats!—if you'll pass the reedom. But you've such a way with you that—there—'ow much.
Miss D'Aut. Only five shillings. Nothing to you!
Mr. C. R. Five bob? You're a artful girl, you are! "Fang de Seakale," and no error! But I'm on it; it's worth the money to 'ave a flower fastened in by such fair 'ands. I won't 'owl—not even if you do run a pin into me.... What? You ain't done a'ready! No 'urry, yer know.... 'Ere, won't you come along to the refreshment-stall, and 'ave a little something at my expense. Do!
Miss D'Aut. I think you must imagine you are talking to a barmaid!
Mr. C. R. (with gallantry). I on'y wish barmaids was 'alf as pleasant and sociable as you, Miss. But they're a precious stuck-up lot, I can assure you!
Miss D'Aut. (to herself as she escapes). I suppose one ought to put up with this sort of thing—for a charity!
Mrs. Babbicombe (at the Toy Stall, to the Belle of the Bazaar, aged three-and-a-half). You perfect duck! You're simply too sweet! I must find you something. (She tempers generosity with discretion by presenting her with a small pair of knitted doll's socks.) There, darling!
The Belle's Mother. What do you say to the kind lady now, Marjory?