Dasher. Ideality.
Kids. Yaas, it’s vewry wemarkable how those phwenological fellaws lay out your bwains, and name them just like—aw—stweets.
Dasher (aside). They must have labeled some of yours “No Thoroughfare.”
Eva. O, don’t talk about brains, Mr. Kids. The discussion of such a subject might fly to your head.
Dasher. And so light is the material there, cause a conflagration.
Kids. Yaas, yaas, like a Mansard woof. And, Dashaw, I’ve got a diwectory of my bwains, and it’s deucedly clevaw; for if an ideah gets into my bwains, I can trace it out in the diwectory, and tell just where it lies, you know, and know just where to find it. Deuced clevaw.
Dasher (aside). ’Twould die of starvation before you found it.
Mrs. M. (comes down). Ah, here’s Munseer Adonis at last!
Enter Monsieur Adonis, r.
Mons. A. Charmant, charmant, leedies and gentimen, I kees your hands. You do me proud. I feel ze glow of satisfaction in ze inermost inside of zis bosom, when you do me ze grande honneur to grace my salon wiz your presence. I feel ze glow all ovar.