Adolf. You’re terrible. I’m frightened of you. How did you manage to know that?
Gustav. I’ve just got three known quantities, and by their help I work out the unknown. What did you say to her, old chap?
Adolf. I said—only two words—but two awful words. I regret them—I regret them.
Gustav. You shouldn’t do that. Well, speak!
Adolf. I said, “Old coquette.”
Gustav. And what else?
Adolf. I didn’t say anything else.
Gustav. Oh yes, you did; you’ve only forgotten it. Perhaps because you haven’t got the pluck to remember it. You’ve locked it up in a secret pigeonhole; open it.
Adolf. I don’t remember.
Gustav. But I know what it was—the sense was roughly this: “You ought to be ashamed of yourself to be always flirting at your age. You’re getting too old to find any more admirers.”