Mrs. B.—“Indeed! and what if you are? Do you think you are going to have it all your own way here? Do you know that I am a Field-Marshal of the Salvation Army?”
Saint Peter.—“Madam; not so loud, pray.”
Mrs. B.—“Six thousand soldiers under my orders. We will see if I am to be treated anyhow. The idea! A pretty reception for a woman like me!”
Saint Peter.—“Will you listen to me a moment?”
Mrs. B.—“A contributor to the War Cry, the official gazette of the elect ... a million copies printed every week ... three-hundred thousand pounds receipts ... original inventor of the blood-and-fire pomade and tooth paste ... admiral of the Salvation Fleet.”
Saint Peter.—“Can you spare a moment that I may put in....”
Mrs. B.—“Barracks all over England ... allies all over the world.”
Saint Peter.—“Will you allow me to....”
Mrs. B.—“It is easy to see that nobody reads the papers here, or you would all know who I am. Who am I indeed! (turning to her suite). Did you ever hear such a thing? Who am I?”
Saint Peter.—“But, once more, madam....”