Bart—(Fumbling in pocket.) Here. Sorry.
Miss Brown—A dollar! Ye never can tell a millionaire by looks these days.
Bart—(Sinking into chair.) Am I doomed to blight everything I touch?
Miss Brown—Are ye sick, mister? Can I help ye?
Bart—Get out, get out, let me alone, and stop that machine!
Miss Brown—(Commiseratingly.) Poor fellow! (Stops machine.) He's got the Willies.
Bart—Don't talk to me, for Heaven's sake; I can't stand it!
Miss Brown—(Sarcastically.) Oh, I was just communin' with me other nuts.
(She stoops to gather up the peanuts, but catches a glimpse of Bart's side face, and sits on floor, looking at him intently.)
To think of that profile bein' wasted on a man! It's terrible the way good looks is chucked around where they ain't needed!