Not while I have _one_ thing to amuse myself
with, at all events.
_George_ (_beaming with joy_). Oh, Heaven be praised and thanked for that!
My goodness, so you have! And what may _that_ be, HEDDA, eh?
_Hedda_ (_at the doorway, with suppressed scorn_). Yes, GEORGE, you have
the old slippers of the attentive Aunt, and I have the horse-pistols of the
deceased General!
_George_ (_in an agony_). The pistols! Oh, my goodness! _what_ pistols?
_Hedda_ (_with cold eyes_). General GABLER'S pistols--same which I
shot--(_recollecting herself_)--no, that's THACKERAY, not IBSEN--a _very_
different person. [_She goes through the back Drawing-room._
_George_ (_at doorway, shouting after her_). Dearest HEDDA, _not_ those
dangerous things, eh? Why, they have never once been known to shoot
straight yet! Don't! Have a catapult. For _my_ sake, have a catapult!
[_Curtain._
* * * * *
Bow-Wow!
The RAIKES' teeth were bared--a most terrible sight!--
At the Messenger Companies. Now all seems joy
For the Public, the P.O., the Co.
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