TWEENY (coming to him good-naturedly). There’s always work to do; but if you want me, Ernest—
ERNEST. There’s something I should like to say to you if you could spare me a moment.
TWEENY. Willingly. What is it?
ERNEST. What an ass I used to be, Tweeny.
TWEENY (tolerantly). Oh, let bygones be bygones.
ERNEST (sincerely, and at his very best). I’m no great shakes even now. But listen to this, Tweeny; I have known many women, but until I knew you I never knew any woman.
TWEENY (to whose uneducated ears this sounds dangerously like an epigram). Take care—the bucket.
ERNEST (hurriedly). I didn’t mean it in that way. (He goes chivalrously on his knees.) Ah, Tweeny, I don’t undervalue the bucket, but what I want to say now is that the sweet refinement of a dear girl has done more for me than any bucket could do.
TWEENY (with large eyes). Are you offering to walk out with me, Erny?
ERNEST (passionately). More than that. I want to build a little house for you—in the sunny glade down by Porcupine Creek. I want to make chairs for you and tables; and knives and forks, and a sideboard for you.