Pri. Tea, sir?
Cha. Yes; tea, tea, tea.
Pri. Senna tea?
Cha. No, confound you, ordinary tea!
Pri. Ordin— ordmorary— onding (Charles impatient)—You’re not ill, I hope, sir?
Cha. Not in the least, thanks. (Going, Charles stops him.) Ah, by the way, landlord, that lady in the next room—what sort of a person is she?
Pri. Char—ming, sir; be-a-u-ti-ful. Oh! she’s much handsomer than her father; but if hereafter he should betray her, if he should—
Cha. Who the devil are you talking about?
Pri. My shon-in-law.
Cha. Confound your son-in-law!