[Becoming maudlin.] Don’t leave me, my rose, my bullfinch—I mean bulbul. You know how my road is beset with pitfall—hic!—and with gin.
Sáki.
[Disgusted.] Plenty of gin, I know. You never can pass a public-house.
Omar.
[Struck with the splendour of the idea.] I say—hic!—let’s fling the dust aside, and naked on the air of Heaven ride. It’s shame not to do it!
[Flings off hat, and stamps on it by way of preliminary.
Sáki.
[Scandalised.] If you take anything else off I shall call the police.
[Exit hurriedly.