PATTY. B. B.
O’WALKER. B. B.
PATTY. Yes—I shan’t tell you any more, except that he’s made his fortune in the soap line, and says I’m absolute perfection.
O’WALKER. The soft soap line evidently. Patty, I congratulate you on your B. B., and you may as well congratulate me.—I’m going to be married.
PATTY. You! You who vowed you could never love any woman but me!
O’WALKER. No, more I did, for a whole fortnight?
PATTY. Well, I can’t stand chattering here any longer—I must go and look after my intended.
O’WALKER. By all means; we’ll go and look after your intended. (opening his umbrella and offering PATTY his arm) Come along, Patty.
PATTY. Certainly not, Mr. O’Walker. B. B.’s so dreadfully jealous, he’d do you some frightful injury to a certainty; that’s one reason—the second is——
O’WALKER. Never mind the second, the first is perfectly satisfactory: though we may be friends, we’re no longer sweethearts.