Capt. G. (Rapturously.) Lit-tle Featherweight!
Mrs. G. I won' t be called those sporting pet names, bad boy.
Capt. G. You'll be called anything I choose. Has it ever occurred to you, Madam, that you are my Wife?
Mrs. G. It has. I haven't ceased wondering at it yet.
Capt. G. Nor I. It seems so strange; and yet, somehow, it doesn't. (Confidently.) You see, it could have been no one else.
Mrs. G. (Softly.) No. No one else—for me or for you. It must have been all arranged from the beginning. Phil, tell me again what made you care for me.
Capt. G. How could I help it? You were you, you know.
Mrs. G. Did you ever want to help it? Speak the truth!
Capt. G. (A twinkle in his eye.) I did, darling, just at the first. Rut only at the very first. (Chuckles.) I called you—stoop low and I'll whisper—“a little beast.” Ho! Ho! Ho!
Mrs. G. (Taking him by the moustache and making him sit up.) “A-little-beast!” Stop laughing over your crime! And yet you had the—the—awful cheek to propose to me!