PIFF. Yes, sir—certainly, sir—but might I be allowed to suggest, sir, that a pot of ale and a clay pipe are hardly the dolce far niente of a grand seigneur.
ALLEN. Hardly the what of my which? Look here, don’t you be so spry at calling me them jaw-breaking foreign names, because I don’t like it. It wur only yesterday you alluded to me as a bo-mo, and last week you said I ought to be in the hot tongs. I didn’t say anything at the time, but you drop it.
PIFF. I referred to you as belonging to the beau monde, sir, and I may have said your position was now among the haut ton. We always talk like that in good society, sir. Both expressions were flattering, very flattering.
ALLEN. Ah, maybe they wur and maybe they wurn’t. Next time, you call it me in English, and then I can judge for myself. And don’t worrit me to-day at all. I’ve got a trying morning before me, and I’m going to have a little quiet enjoyment to set myself up before it begins.
PIFF. Might I suggest, then, sir, that a cigarette and a little absinthe would be more de rigueur? My late lamented master the Count de Fizziani invariably took a little absinthe after breakfast and found great benefit from it.
ALLEN. Yes, I know. I tried your friend’s cough mixture before, you know. Old ale’s good enough for me.
PIFF. But, sir—
ALLEN. Don’t you worrit. I’ve been a gentleman for a month; I think I might have a morning off.
PIFF. Very well, sir. Just as you please, of course, sir; but I’ve my character to consider, sir—and—and—I am not accustomed to the service of gentlemen with pothouse proclivities.
ALLEN. (Sotto voce.) Oh, go and hang yourself.