BOX. Ah, that may be—but I’m not alive!
COX (pushing back his chair). You’ll excuse me, sir, but I don’t like joking upon such subjects.
BOX. I’m perfectly serious, sir. I’ve been defunct for the last three years.
COX (shouting). Will you be quiet, sir?
BOX. If you won’t believe me, I’ll refer you to a very large, numerous, and respectable circle of disconsolate friends.
COX. My dear sir—my very dear sir—if there does exist any ingenious contrivance whereby a man on the eve of committing matrimony can leave this world, and yet stop in it, I shouldn’t be sorry to know it.
BOX. Oh! then I presume I’m not to set you down as being frantically attached to your intended?
COX. Why, not exactly; and yet, at present, I’m only aware of one obstacle to doating upon her, and that is, that I can’t abide her!
BOX. Then there’s nothing more easy. Do as I did.
COX (eagerly). I will! What was it?