Inspector. Can the spots be taken out?
Grigòriev. Oh ay, your honour.
Inspector. How?
Grigòriev. I don’t know.
Inspector. I think with turpentine?
Grigòriev. And I think with turpentine.
Inspector. Only I’m afraid it’ll smell.
Grigòriev. ’Twill stink, your honour.
Inspector. I don’t know, though—perhaps it won’t.
Grigòriev. Of course it won’t, your honour! (Brings back the uniform.) ’Tis ready, your honour.