Cray. He's a good-natured beggar, and he don't bear malice. He put it to her, but she's an obstinate devil—she didn't listen to reason. Now it struck me that as you're a magpie——
Pil. Tut!
Miss P. A magpie?
Cray. Beg pardon—I mean as you're a parson, with your eye on the marriage service—"Those who Heaven joined" and all that kind of thing—you might see your way to chuckin' her out, neck and crop, without a character—D'you see?—and so bring her to a sense of dooty.
Miss P. Really, Audley, there is something to be said for this gentleman's suggestion.
Pil. Whatever course it may ultimately be desirable for me to adopt, I shall require more definite information than I at present possess as to the intentions and—er—general identity—of the alleged husband.
Cray. You can have it. I'm her husband.
Pil. You! (Miss Pillenger also conveys surprise)
Cray. Yes, you ask her; she'll admit she's been married all right.