Whitwell. Certainly.
Eglantine. Ah, papa! forgive him. He retracts “old ruffian.”
Coddle. And “brute”?
Whitwell. Of course.
Coddle. And “old foozle”?
Whitwell. Entirely, sir.
Eglantine. Papa, of course he does.
Coddle (a pause). No, Mr. Whittermat, I can’t give my daughter to a man I never heard of in my life,—and with such a preposterous name too! No, no.
Whitwell. My name is Whitwell, my dear sir,—not Whittermat: nephew of your old friend Benjamin Pottle.
Coddle. God bless me! Nephew of Ben Pottle! Why didn’t you say so before? What did you tell me your name was Whittermat for?