_Imogen._
No!
_Tom._
Yes!
_Imogen._
Ho, ho, ho, ho!
_Tom._
[_With forced hilarity._] Ho, ho! ha, ha! And the spurs--the spurs that
once tore your satin petticoat! You recollect------?
_Imogen._
[_Her mirth suddenly checked._] Recollect!
_Tom._
You would see those spurs to-night, too, if you patronized us--and the
red worsted tights. The worsted tights are a little thinner, a little
more faded and discolored, a little more darned--Oh, yes, thank you, I
am still, as you put it, still--still--still----
[_He walks away, going to the mantelpiece and turning his back upon
her._]
_Imogen._
[_After a brief pause._] I'm sure I didn't intend to hurt your feelings,
Wrench.
_Tom._
[_Turning, with some violence._] You! you hurt my feelings! Nobody can
hurt my feelings! I have no feelings---!
[_Ablett re-enters, carrying three chairs of odd patterns. Tom seizes
the chairs and places them about the table, noisily._]
_Ablett._