Bel. Cheviot, you’re joking—you don’t mean this! Why, I shall lose £1000 a year by it, every penny I have in the world! Oh, it can’t be—it’s nonsense!
Ch. What do you mean by nonsense? The married state is an honourable estate, I believe? A man is not looked upon as utterly lost to all sense of decency because he’s got married, I’m given to understand! People have been married before this, and have not been irretrievably tabooed in consequence, unless I’m grossly misinformed? Then what the dickens do you mean by saying “nonsense” when I tell you that I’m going to be married?
Bel. Cheviot, be careful how you take this step. Beware how you involve an innocent and helpless girl in social destruction.
Ch. What do you mean, sir?
Bel. You cannot marry; you are a married man.
Ch. Come, come, Belvawney, this is trifling.
Bel. You are married to Miss Treherne. I was present, and can depose to the fact.
Ch. Oh, you’re not serious.
Bel. Never more serious in my life.