CAPT. G. (Knocking the ashes out of his pipe.) 'Tisn't what we say, it's what we don't say, that helps. And it's all the profoundest philosophy. But no one would understand—even if it were put into a book.
MRS. G. The idea! No—only we ourselves, or people like ourselves—if there are any people like us.
CAPT. G. (Magisterially.) All people, not like ourselves, are blind idiots.
MRS. G. (Wiping her eyes.) Do you think, then, that there are any people as happy as we are?
CAPT. G. 'Must be—unless we've appropriated all the happiness in the world.
MRS. G. (Looking towards Simla.) Poor dears! Just fancy if we have!
CAPT. G. Then we'll hang on to the whole show, for it's a great deal too jolly to lose—eh, wife o' mine?
MRS. G. O Pip! Pip! How much of you is a solemn, married man and how much a horrid, slangy schoolboy?
CAPT. G. When you tell me how much of you was eighteen last birthday and how much is as old as the Sphinx and twice as mysterious, perhaps I'll attend to you. Lend me that banjo. The spirit moveth me to yowl at the sunset.
MRS. G. Mind! It's not tuned. Ah! How that jars.