“Oh, I do wish you would! It isn’t that I care, but honestly, George, it is so bad for you to smoke so much. Don’t you think you could reduce the amount? And George— I notice now, when you come home from these lodges and all, that sometimes you smell of whisky. Dearie, you know I don’t worry so much about the moral side of it, but you have a weak stomach and you can’t stand all this drinking.”
“Weak stomach, hell! I guess I can carry my booze about as well as most folks!”
“Well, I do think you ought to be careful. Don’t you see, dear, I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Sick, rats! I’m not a baby! I guess I ain’t going to get sick just because maybe once a week I shoot a highball! That’s the trouble with women. They always exaggerate so.”
“George, I don’t think you ought to talk that way when I’m just speaking for your own good.”
“I know, but gosh all fishhooks, that’s the trouble with women! They’re always criticizing and commenting and bringing things up, and then they say it’s ‘for your own good’!”
“Why, George, that’s not a nice way to talk, to answer me so short.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to answer short, but gosh, talking as if I was a kindergarten brat, not able to tote one highball without calling for the St. Mary’s ambulance! A fine idea you must have of me!”
“Oh, it isn’t that; it’s just— I don’t want to see you get sick and— My, I didn’t know it was so late! Don’t forget to give me those household accounts for the time while I was away.”
“Oh, thunder, what’s the use of taking the trouble to make ’em out now? Let’s just skip ’em for that period.”