Hippanthigh: I never said that.
Sladder: No. But you made me feel it. I never felt so bad about myself before, not as bad as that. But you, Mr. Hippanthigh, you were the high-falutin' angel with a new brass halo, out on its bank holiday. Now, how would clandestine love-making strike you, Mr. Hippanthigh? Would that be all right to your way of thinking?
Hippanthigh: Clandestine, Mr. Sladder? I hardly understand you.
Sladder: I understand that you have been making love to my daughter.
Hippanthigh: I admit it.
Sladder: Well, I haven't heard you say anything about it to me before. Did you tell her mother?
Hippanthigh: Er—no.
Sladder: Perhaps you told me. Very likely I've forgotten it.
Hippanthigh: No.
Sladder: Well, who did you tell?