(Stuttering and stammering.)
Why—I—they're damned select—it's the women, you know—and I—they—well, they made me doorkeeper, and—
(Breaking down.)
—you know well enough yourself, Jack.
MAN
(Rising as though to go, and in angry tones.) By God, you can come down to Jack Denison's joint all right, and buck Jack Denison's faro layout all right, and have a social drink with him all right; but when Jack Denison comes up to your doings, you turn'm down like he had smallpox.
PRINCE
It's not my fault. It's the women, I tell you. They're running the show.
MAN
(Wheedlingly.)