Apple, (amazed.) “What! you here.”
Tristo and Quod. “Yes, we’ve just stept in. You, I suppose, didn’t think there was a soul here.”
Apple, (chuckling.) “No, faith: I expected to be solus, myself!”
Quod. “Why, Dumpling, you are witty to-night.”
Apple. “A witty sentence should be like a scorpion, the sting in the tail, but should not, like a scorpion, sting itself to death, ha! ha!”
Tristo. “Excellent! but do, dear Apple, fling away your vile cigars.”
Apple, (winking.) “A cigar, my dear fellow, is the summum bonum—pity its fumes are not perfumes.”
Tristo. “Your wit should not hinder your politeness. I dislike them, and I am your host.”
Apple. “Yes, and in yourself an host, ha! ha!”
Nescio. “Why, Apple, where on earth do you get so many good things?”