Mr. Icky: What does she mean?
Divine: (Kindly) My dear, of course, it would be Jack. It couldn’t be Frank.
Mr. Icky: Frank who?
Ulsa: It would be Frank!
(Some risqué joke can be introduced here.)
Mr. Icky: (Whimsically) No good fighting...no good fighting...
Divine: (Reaching out to stroke her arm with the powerful movement that made him stroke of the crew at Oxford) You’d better marry me.
Ulsa: (Scornfully) Why, they wouldn’t let me in through the servants’ entrance of your house.
Divine: (Angrily) They wouldn’t! Never fear—you shall come in through the mistress’ entrance.
Ulsa: Sir!