Roy. Very bad. A biting sarcasm (Looks at sabre). Rather ornamental. Hey, May? (Sits in chair, R. of table.)
May. It has a wicked look. It makes me shudder.
Roy. Indeed! then down it comes. (Rises.)
May. No, let it hang. I only fear that, like its master, it may occasionally have martial fits, and then——
Roy. Fits! Well, what then?
May. My poor vases would fall beneath the sword.
Roy. Never fear; like its master, ’tis securely tied to your apron-string. How time flies! ’Tis ten years since my old friend and I closed our campaign.
May. And just three months since we closed our campaign——
Roy. Of courtship, yes, and massed our forces for the battle of life. Yes, yes. Then I captured the heart, which, for two years, I had so valiantly attacked.