Bertie. Mention casuawlly that I am an heir, mamma fwightfully wich, don’t you know, only child, an’ all that. Start a talk, don’t you see.
Mary. But whom am I to talk to! I don’t know your flame.
Bertie. (Sucks cane.) Aw, an obstacle wight away, I neveh could suhmount obstacles. I saiey now, help me out, woman. A cwuel custom compels me to sit and wait to be wooed.
Mary. Describe her!
Bertie. (Brightening.) To be suah, good idea, don’t you know. Well, she is awfully swell.
Mary. Nonsense! Blonde or brunette?
Bertie. Aw, thanks for the suggestion. How deuced clevah you aw. She’s a blonde.
Mary. Clothes?
Bertie. Velvet suit, cutaway coat, silk tile, silveh knee chains that hook into the wing of the shoe toes by a deuce of a clevah little hand, don’t you know.