Artist. Let go—let me go—drat it all, let go.
Mr. B. Bless you, my boy—bless you!
Lady. I have left my portemonnaie in your studio—will you be kind enough to let me have it?
Mr. B. Young woman, spare me!
Lady (to Artist). Pray protect me from this venerable ruffian.
Mr. B. (aside.) Venerable ruffian! Come, now, that is what the boys call rather rough. (Aloud.) Then you don't love me?
Lady. If you insult me further, I shall inform my father.
Mr. B. Then you have a father?—wonderful! Are you sure of it—no deception? What is his name? Where does he live? Tell me quick—quick—do not deceive me!
Lady. My father, sir, is General MacSlasher, who will not allow his daughter to be insulted with impunity.
Mr. B. MacSlasher! The brave MacSlasher, who married my half-cousin Columbia Ann, of Pickleville, Indiana?