Charles. Here are your letters, Mr. Twitters. I assure you—
Twitters. I like your little game, Charles, I like it. Perhaps Clara’ll like it, too, you young Machiavelli. Now don’t pretend you didn’t come to see her. Six thousand in, by Jove. I must sell out Harshaw as soon as I get to town. Bottom’s sure to fall out of it. (Enter Clara with watering pot.)
Clara. Good morning, papa dear, (kisses him.) Why, Dr. Squillcox, are you here?
Twitters. As if you didn’t expect him.
Clara. How can you say such things, papa?
Charles. Yes, Mr. Twitters, it’s most unjust—
Clara. If I had expected anybody, should I have brought in this great, heavy watering-pot?
Charles. Can’t I hold it Miss Clara? (takes it.)
Clara. I was going to water my flowers in the garden.
Twitters. Go along, my dear: and go along with her, you rascal. (Laughs. Exeunt Charles and Clara laughing.)