Mr. Jarvis (quickly)—Whereas, in the world represented by what we have agreed to call the upper layer of the cake, I don’t know a lump of flour from a raisin?
Miss Paysley—Exactly.
Mr. Jarvis—May I ask if you are a real raisin—as I’ve given you the credit of being?
Miss Paysley—Oh! you should know what I am. I don’t belong to the upper layer—the highly spiced one.
Mr. Jarvis—Would you mind telling me if there is any particular lump of flour now passing itself off on me as a raisin?
Miss Paysley (with dignity)—My good man, this is palmistry, not a life saving expedition! (Aside.) He’s a little too quick.
Mr. Jarvis—It seemed to me to have something to do with the art of portrait painting.
Miss Paysley—I’m not responsible, am I, for the lines in your hand?
Mr. Jarvis—No, nor for your opinion of me.
Miss Paysley (aside)—You can’t get a rise out of me that way. (Aloud.) No, nor for that, either.