Aug [Enthusiastically.] How delightfully romantic! I can
imagine the wild young hunter. An Apollo of the prairie.

Flo An Apollo of the prairie; yes, with a strong nasal twang,
and a decided taste for tobacco and cobblers.

Sir E Florence, you forget that he is a Trenchard, and no true Trenchard
would have a liking for cobblers or low people of that kind.

Flo I hate him, whatever he is, coming here to rob poor cousin Mary
of her grandmother's guineas.

Sir E Florence, how often must I request you not to speak of
Mary Meredith as your cousin?

Flo Why, she is my cousin, is she not? Besides she presides over
her milk pail like a duchess playing dairymaid. [Sir E. goes up.]
Ah! Papa won't hear me speak of my poor cousin, and then I'm so
fond of syllabubs. Dundreary, do you know what syllabubs are?

Dun Oh, yeth, I know what syllabubs is--yeth--yeth.

Flo Why, I don't believe you do know what they are.

Dun Not know what syllabubs are? That's a good idea. Why they are--
syllabubs are--they are only babies, idiotic children; that's a good idea,
that's good. [Bumps head against Florence.]

Flo No, it's not a bit like the idea. What you mean are called cherubims.