Coddle. Old ruffian! This is insufferable. (They sit.)
Whitwell (shouts). Will not Miss Coddle dine with us to-day?
Coddle. Jackanapes! Not if I know it. (Shouts.) She’s not well. This soup is cold, I fear. (Offers some.)
Whitwell. Eat it yourself, old foozle. (Bows courteously a refusal.)
Coddle. Infamous puppy! (Shouts.) Nay, I insist. (Drops voice.) It’s smoked,—just fit for you.
Whitwell (shouts). Thanks, no: never eat soup. (Drops voice.) Old savage, lucky for you I adore your lovely daughter!
Coddle. Shall I pitch this tureen at his head?—Jane! (Enter Jane with a dish.) Take off the soup, Jane. This gentleman won’t have any. What have you there?
Jane (shouts). Partridge and spinach, sir. (Puts dish on table.)
Whitwell (shouts). A delicious dish, Mr. Coddle,—my favorite.