GEORGE.—Give us a cigar!
TOUCHIT.—Oh, you enfant terrible!
MILLIKEN [wheezily].—Ah—ahem—George Touchit! you wouldn't mind—a—smoking that cigar in the garden, would you? Ah—ah!
TOUCHIT.—Hullo! What's in the wind now? You used to be a most inveterate smoker, Horace.
MILLIKEN.—The fact is—my mother-in-law—Lady Kicklebury—doesn't like it, and while she's with us, you know—
TOUCHIT.—Of course, of course [throws away cigar]. I beg her ladyship's pardon. I remember when you were courting her daughter she used not to mind it.
MILLIKEN.—Don't—don't allude to those times. [He looks up at his wife's picture.]
GEORGE.—My mamma was a Kicklebury. The Kickleburys are the oldest family in all the world. My name is George Kicklebury Milliken, of Pigeoncot, Hants; the Grove, Richmond, Surrey; and Portland Place, London, Esquire—my name is.
TOUCHIT.—You have forgotten Billiter Street, hemp and tallow merchant.
GEORGE.—Oh, bother! I don't care about that. I shall leave that when I'm a man: when I'm a man and come into my property.