Mons. A. Now, my arm around your waist—so.
Mulligrub (aside). O, perfidious Hannah!
Mons. A. Now let your head drop upon ze collar of my coat. Ah, zat is good, zat is exquisite.
Mulligrub. She presses his collar, and my cholar is rising. I shall choke with rage.
Mons. M. All right. Now, one, two, three, and off we go.
Mulligrub (pushing the screen over on to the floor. Discovered standing in a chair, with doubled fist). Stop! (Very loud.)
Mrs. M. Ah! (Screams, and falls into Monsieur Adonis’s arms.)
Mons. A. Sacre! Who calls so loud?
Mulligrub. An injured husband.
Mrs. M. (jumping up). O, it’s Moses!