The Wife (bitterly). "Yes, it makes a nice outin' for me, don't it—settin' in the rain all day guardin' a tin o' worms?"
Dizzy. No, no.
Margot (brightly). Let us be sensible and talk frankly about your approaching death. Have you any views as to your biography?
Dizzy. Need there be one?
Margot. Of course.
Dizzy (earnestly). Would you write it? You would be so discreet.
I had to refuse, but I am sure I could have made a more amusing job of it than Mr. Buckle has done, in spite of the love-letters. What a pity they didn't entrust it to my dear Edmund Gosse!