_Avonia._
Oh, lor', your head's continually running on your comedy. Half this
blessed evening----
_Tom._
I tell you, I won't have doors stuck here, there, and everywhere; no,
nor windows in all sorts of impossible places!
_Avonia._
Oh, really! Well, when you do get your play accepted, mind you see that
Mr. Manager gives you exactly what you ask for--won't you?
_Tom._
You needn't be satirical, if you _are_ wet. Yes, I will I [_Pointing to
the left._] Windows on the one side [_pointing to the right_], doors on
the other--just where they should be, architecturally. And locks on the
doors, _real locks_, to work; and handles--to turn! [_Rubbing his hands
together gleefully._] Ha, ha! you wait! wait--!
[_Rose re-enters, with a plate of biscuits in her hand, followed by
Charles, who carries a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses._]
_Rose._