Miss Philp (Aside).—The servant volunteered to tell me this man’s name. He is merely assuming the ancient quaver. His form is as straight as a pin oak. (Aloud) My eyes are not deceived, Mr. Morley Dingle.
Weatherspout.—Not knowing the party for whom you take me, I am unable to rate the value of your compliment.
Miss Philp (Aside).—It is Dingle, sure! (Aloud) Then, holy Monk, be my father confessor and learn that Mr. Morley Dingle is a perfect Adonis, a gentleman of rare attainments, one whose name any woman would be proud to—to—that is—include among her list of friends.
Weatherspout.—Or read upon her teaspoons—I comprehend.
Miss Philp.—Of course I speak from hearsay only; I have not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the gentleman; although I think I have enjoyed his company this evening.
Weatherspout.—My child, you are mistaken; I am not Dingle. I am glad for your sake that you are deceived. You will also be satisfied when you have reflected upon the matter.
Miss Philp (Angrily).—Do you know to whom you are talking?
Weatherspout.—Candidly, I do not.
Miss Philp (Aside).—I see; he fears I will penetrate his disguise. (Aloud) Oh, you are deep, very deep.
Weatherspout (Offering his arm).—Permit me to escort you to the drawing-room.