BROWN. (R.) That tailor of yours, sir, hadn’t the ghost of a chance with you—you didn’t leave him a leg to stand on.
O’WALKER. No, I flatter myself I rather cooked his goose.
BROWN. Good, good, good again: if you will insist upon making yourself so damned agreeable, I shall be obliged to embrace you before I am dry. I am the last man in the world to intrude upon any one, but if upon emerging into yonder crowded thoroughfare, our paths happen to lay in the same direction, we will walk together, and by the time we part, as I shall probably be dry, I can embrace you.
O’WALKER. (impatiently) Oh! confound it—there—(flinging his arms round BROWN) and now I’m off to Pimlico—what say you?
BROWN. I say wherever you go—Brown goes too. (taking O’WALKER’S arm)
O’WALKER. Brown!
BROWN. Brown! Barbican Brown! but perhaps you’ll have no objection to my taking Little Windmill Street in my way?
O’WALKER. (aside) Brown—Little Windmill Street!
BROWN. Just to buy a few cubas. (taking out cigar case)
O’WALKER. (aside) Brown—Little Windmill Street—cubas. (snatches cigar case out of BROWN’S hand—takes out a cuba and examines it, aside) This is one of Amelia Jones’s cubas—I’ll swear to it—he’s a Brown—he says he’s a Brown, and if a Brown, why not the “fondest of Brown’s,” if I could only make him the means of getting those infernal letters of mine back—I have it. (aloud and suddenly seizing BROWN’S hand) Brown, it is my painful duty instantly to plunge a dagger into your manly bosom. (BROWN starts) Don’t be alarmed, I speak figuratively—in other words—(in a loud and mysterious whisper) go elsewhere for your cubas.