'Good egg!' shrieked Lancelot, rather wishing, though he was fond of music, that the orchestra would stop beating the floor with hammers.
'What did you say?'
'I said, "Good egg."'
'Why?'
'Because the idea crossed my mind that, if you felt like that, you might care to marry me.'
There was a sudden lull in the storm. It was as if the audacity of his words had stricken the orchestra into a sort of paralysis. Dark-complexioned men who had been exploding bombs and touching off automobile hooters became abruptly immobile and sat rolling their eyeballs. One or two people left the floor, and plaster stopped falling from the ceiling.
'Marry you?' said the girl.
'I love you as no man has ever loved woman before.'
'Well, that's always something. What would the name be?'
'Mulliner. Lancelot Mulliner.'