Clara (with terror). No! No!
Hunker (pleased with himself). O, we’re kindred spirits; we’ll soon be friends. I like your New England country. As Lady Franklin said to me, when we was taking supper together on the Oregon steamer. She was goin’ to hunt up John’s bones in Sitka, where I kept a hotel—“Beans is a benevolent institution, Mr. Hunker,” says she. “You’re right, Lady F.,” says I. Now speak up, if you’re talked to death, Miss Clara.
Clara. I have nothing to say.
Hunker. All right. I can talk right along,—keep it up forever. By George, it would be funny if you and I should conclude to keep it up forever—eh, Clara?
Clara. I don’t understand this man, papa.
Twitters. He is a rough diamond, dear.
Clara. Then he ought to be “cut.”
Hunker. Why, make a match of it.
Clara (aside). O dear. I shall be ill, really. I must send for Charles. (Aloud.) Papa, I don’t feel well.
Twitters (starting). Eh, my dear! What’s the matter?