Polly (indignantly). Bijah!
Bijah. Now, don't get excited, Polly; I'm by no means a blooming flower in the garden of youth myself. I've lived long enough to find out that money is the root of all evil; that an old rat is more capable from experience of keeping out of traps than a young one; that life may be worth living, but it isn't worth much of anything else; that an old sweetheart is at least a blessed memory; and so, when this cruel war is over, I'm going to lay my heart at the feet of—Miss Polly Primrose.
Polly. Oh, Bijah!
Bijah. In the meantime, as I am rather hungry, a bite of something from the cupboard wouldn't go bad.
Polly. Then come with me.
Bijah. Thanks, Polly; but before I accept of your hospitality, who is the proprietor of this establishment?
Polly. Colonel Gordon Graham.
Bijah. What? You don't mean it. (Aside.) Here's luck. (Aloud.) That grand old fellow?
Polly. Do you know him?
Bijah. Know him? Wal, I guess. Shot in the back. A dastardly trick.