Adorer (relieved by this condescension). The very thing! (Tenderly.) We will both have Cutlets.
Waiter (who has been waiting in dignified submission). Two Porzion Cutlet, verri well—enni Pottidoes?
Pussy (sharply). Potted what?
Adorer (to Waiter). Yes. (To Pussy, aside, in same breath.) Potatoes, darling. (The Waiter suspects he is being trifled with.) Do you prefer them sautés, fried, or in chips,—or what?
Pussy (with the lofty indifference of an ethereal nature). I'm sure I don't care how they're done!
Adorer. Then—Potato-chips, Waiter.
Pussy (as Waiter departs). Not for me—I'll have mine sautés!
Adorer (when they are alone, leaning across table). I've been looking forward to this all day!
Pussy (unsympathetically). Didn't you have any lunch then?
Adorer. I don't mean to the dinner—but to having you to talk with, quite alone by our two selves.