Smith. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.
Hunt. (Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.) Ain’t it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?
Jean (stolidly). I hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (Going.) Mr. Smith!
Smith. Mrs. Watt, ma’am! (Going.)
Hunt. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady’s man to another, turn about’s fair play. You’ve had your confab, and now I’m going to have mine. (Not that I’ve done with you; you stand by and wait.) Ladies first, George, ladies first; that’s the size of it. (To Jean, aside.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain’t a natural fool?
Jean. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.
Smith (interfering). Jean...!
Hunt (keeping him off). Half a tick, George. (To Jean.) Mrs. Watt, I’ve a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?
Jean. Whatten kind of a word’ll that be?
Smith. Mum it is, Jean!