G. (Knocking the ashes out of his pipe.) 'Tisn't what we
say, it's what we don't say, that helps. And it's all the profoundest
philosophy. But no one would understand-even if it were put into a
book.
MRS. G. The idea! No-only we ourselves, or people like
ourselves-if there are any people like us.
CAPT. G. (Magisterially.) All people, not like ourselves, are blind
idiots.
MRS. G. (Wiping her eyes.) Do you think, then, that there are any
people as happy as we are?
CAPT. G. 'Must be-unless we've appropriated all the happiness in
the world.
MRS. G'. (Looking toward Simla.) Poor dears! Just fancy if we
have!
CAPT. G. Then we'll hang on to the whole show, for it's a great
deal too jolly to lose-eh, wife o' mine?
MRS. G. O Pip! Pip! How much of you is a solemn, married man
and how much a horrid slangy schoolboy?
CAPT. G. When you tell me how much of you was eighteen last
birthday and how much is as old as the Sphinx and twice as
mysterious, perhaps I'll attend to you. Lend me that banjo. The
spirit moveth me to jowl at the sunset.
MRS. G. Mind! It's not tuned. Ah! How that jars!
CAPT G. (Turning pegs.) It's amazingly different to keep a banjo
to proper pitch.
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