Dasher. Thank you. And now congratulate me. I threw down my pen, after a hard fight with figures, to seek the lonely recesses of my bachelor’s quarters, heartily sick of life, when it suddenly occurred to me that this evening Monsieur Adonis gives one of his charming assemblies. Perhaps, thought I, there I may find rest for my weary brain from the figures of the ledger, which are dancing in my head, in the figures of the dance. But did I dream of falling into such charming society? No; most emphatically and decidedly, no. Therefore, like Cæsar—
Mrs. M. And pray, Mr. Dasher, who is this Cæsar you’re making such a fuss about?
Ida. Why, mother!
Mrs. M. La, child, there’s nobody of that name I’m acquainted with.
Ida. You know, mother, Cæsar was the great Roman general, who—
Mrs. M. La, yes; Mr. Dasher was only speaking metagorically. Cæsar was the man who crossed the what’s-its-name, and was stabbed by a brute.
Eva. Never mind Cæsar. Here’s my card, Mr. Dasher. Of course your name will be the first I shall allow upon it.
Dasher (sits on lounge beside Eva). Am I to be so highly honored. (Takes card.)
Eva. For a waltz, and only one.
Mrs. M. La, child, don’t be so unscrupulous. You’ll dance till you drop if you get a chance.