Box. Me, sir?
Cox. Of course. You don’t suppose I’m going to read a letter from your intended?
Box. My intended! Pooh! It’s addressed to you—C. O. X.!
Cox. Do you think that’s a C.? It looks to me like a B.
Box. Nonsense! Fracture the seal!
Cox. [Opens letter—starts.] Goodness gracious!
Box. [Snatching letter—starts.] Gracious goodness!
Cox. [Taking letter again.] “Margate—May the 4th. Sir,—I hasten to convey to you the intelligence of a melancholy accident, which has bereft you of your intended wife.” He means your intended!
Box. No, yours! However, it’s perfectly immaterial—but she unquestionably was yours.