Poe. O, don’t talk so, I beg you!
Mrs. S. Why now, Mr. Poe! Law me, who ’d a thought you could be so softhearted—about a tombstone, too!
Poe. As I said, my dear madam—speaking of weddings—pray take this chair. ’T is all I have to offer. Gladly will I stand before you, though I am but slightly bolstered within for the attitude. Speak to me, madam. Let one thought fly from thy caging brow to me a beggar vile.
Mrs. S. O, Mr. Poe!
Poe. Thanks for the burden of those syllables.
Mrs. S. My dear Mr. Poe!
Poe. Again? You overwhelm me? Dare I speak? You have suspected? You know why I linger in this dear room—dear as the barrier that staves off guttery death? This kindness is sincere? I may trust it and speak?
Mrs. S. You may, Mr. Poe.
Poe. Well then, sweet Smidgkin, will you open the broad gates of genial widowhood to admit a fallen wretch to the warmth of your bosom and hearthstone—particularly the latter?
Mrs. S. (With dignity) I presume, Mr. Poe, that I am addressed by an offer of marriage. I have had offers before, Mr. Poe,—one an undertaker who drove a good business, but he looked for all the world like one of his own corpses an’ what is business says I to a woman in good circumstances with a longin’ heart? I don’t mind sayin’ it, Mr. Poe, a nice lookin’ man always did take my eye, an’ you ’ll be a pretty figure when you’re plumped out a bit, indeed you will, but your addresses of this offer is somewhat unusual, an’ if you ’ll give me time—