ANNABELLE. I think you're perfectly horrid.
JIMMY. So do I. I disapprove of myself violently. I'm a doddering lunatic, incapable of thinking of anything but you. I can't work. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I'm no use to the world. I'm not a man, I'm a mess. I'm about to do something silly because I can't do anything else.
ANNABELLE. (pouting) You've no respect for me.
JIMMY. None whatever. I love you. And I'm going to carry you off.
ANNABELLE. You're a brute.
JIMMY. Absolutely. I'd advise you to go straight home.
ANNABELLE. (defiantly) Perhaps I shall!
JIMMY. Then go quick. (He takes out his watch.) In one minute, if you are still here, I shall pick you up and carry you off to South America.—Quick! there's the door!
ANNABELLE. (faintly) I—I want to go. . . .
JIMMY. Well, why don't you? . . . Thirty seconds!