Ida. Hush, mother.
Mrs. M. Now what’s the matter with you? Mr. What’s-his-name will dance with you, too. Don’t be so anxious.
Ida. O, dear, was there ever such a torment. (Sits on lounge, L.)
Enter Kids, c.
Kids (with glass to his eye). Now, weally! Have I stumbled into the bodwaw of a bevy of enchanting goddesses?—have I, weally?
Ida. O, Mr. Kids!
Eva. You have, weally, Mr. Kids.
Dasher. Lavender, my boy, how are you?
Kids. And will the divine goddesses permit me to entaw, to disturb their tableaw of beauty with my horwid figgaw?
Eva. Yes, trot your horwid figgaw in, Mr. Kids.