“Oh, you perfect ass!” Both laugh, a little unsteadily.
“Well, Ollie, what think?” says Ted, finding some difficulty with his words for some reason or other.
“Think? Can't tell, my amorous child. Coldly considered, I think you've got a good show—and I'm very strong for it, needless to say—and if you don't go and put it over pretty soon I'll be intensely annoyed—one of the pleasures I've promised myself for years and years has been getting most disgracefully fried at your wedding, Ted.”
“Well, tonight is going to be zero hour, I think.” Ted proceeds with a try at being flippant and Oliver cackles with mirth.
“I knew it. I knew it. Old Uncle Ollie, the Young Proposer's Guide and Pocket Companion.” Then his voice changes. “Luck,” he says briefly.
“Thanks. Need it.”
“Of course I'm not worthy,” Ted begins diffidently but Oliver stops him.
“They never are. I wasn't. But that doesn't make any difference. You've got to—n'est-ce pas?”
“You old bum! Yes. But when I think of it—-”
“Don't”