EDMUND. Oh!
ELSIE (indignantly). A professional footballer! He's the finest centre forward in England.
EDMUND (politely). Really? Quite a great man.
LEO. Quite. He's the idol of my sisters and the Black-ton roughs. For two hours every Saturday and Bank Holiday through eight months of the year forty thousand pairs of eyes are glued on Metherell and the newspapers of Saturday night, Sunday and Monday chronicle his exploits in about two columns; but if you don't know what "agitating the spheroid towards the sticks" means, you'd better not try to read them.
(Elsie approaches him threateningly.)
He is also good looking and a decent fellow.
ELSIE. You'd better add that.
LEO. I will add more. He spends the rest of his time training for those two hours, and when he's thirty he'll retire and keep a pub; and in three years eighteen stone of solid flesh will bury the glory that was Metherell.
ELSIE (threatening him). You viperous little skunk.
LEO. I appeal to you, uncle. Can a skunk possess the attributes of a viper?