Madame (backhairing energetically). Fiddlesticks.
The Signor (in an injured tone). Oh! Vy you say zat? You know I do sof-far from my nose—and my head ache all . . .
Madame (coming to a dead stop in her toilette). Mr. Regniati, you eat and drink too much.
The Signor (as if horrified at lying under such an imputation, but showing no disposition to rise with the occasion). Oh! My Jo! (appealing to abstract justice in the bed-curtains.) Good-ness knows (he pronounces it ‘Good-ness-knows’) I eat no-sing at-all.
Madame (coming to the point). Mr. Regniati, I can't finish my dressing if you stop there.
The Signor (bestirring himself with as much dignity as is possible under the circumstances). I go. Vere is my leet-tel slip-pers? (Protesting) I shall catch my dets of cold. (He finds them.)
Madame. Now, Mr. Regniati, make haste, or we shall be late. (Shuts his dressing-room door on him.)
In about a quarter of an hour after this, the carriage is announced, and the Signor is hurried down stairs.
The Signor (complaining). Oh! I am so ongry. (Procrastinating.) Ve 'ave time to take som-sing to eat, be-fore zat ve . . .
Madame (cutting him short). Nonsense, Mr. Regniati. If you wanted to stuff, you should have got up earlier.