"Nonsense—there is the language of flowers. All my lovers commence by talking that."
"You get so many bouquets, dear. It may be—as you say his appearance is so distinguished—that he dislikes so commonplace a method."
"Well, if he doesn't want to throw his love at my feet, he might have tried to send it me in a billet-doux."
"That is also commonplace. Besides, he may know that all your letters are delivered to me, and opened by me. The fact has often enough appeared in print."
"Ah, yes, but genius will find out a way. You remember Lieutenant Campbell, who was so hit the moment he saw me as Perdita that he went across the road to the telegraph-office and wired, 'Meet me at supper, top floor, Piccadilly Restaurant, 11.15,' so that the doorkeeper sent the message direct to the prompter, who gave it me as I came off with Florizel and Camilla. That is the sort of man I admire!"
"But you soon tired of him, darling."
"Oh, mother! How can you say so? I loved him the whole run of the piece."
"Yes, dear, but it was only Shakespeare."
"Would you have love a Burlesque? 'A Winter's Tale' is long enough for any flirtation. Let me see, was it Campbell or Belfort who shot himself? I for——oh! oh! that hairpin is irritating me, mother."
"There! There! Is that easier?"