MOTHER. Whatever you are called, you are, I think, a man of the
world, and you will understand that if I am to trust my daughter to
you, for however little a time, I must know something more about
you.
TALKER. Madame, I will make a confession to you, a confession I
have never yet made to man, woman, or child. I am forty-six years
of age; it is, in fact, my birthday. Were I to begin to tell you
something about myself, starting from that day, forty-six years
ago, when I was born--were I to begin--well, Madame, I am only too
ready to begin. It is a subject I find vastly pleasant. But,
(looking at her comically) shall I begin?
MOTHER (with a smile). Would you make it so long a story, sir?
TALKER (with a sigh). The tongue is an unruly member, and to one
who has but three notes on the pipe, and yet desires to express
himself, talking is a great comfort.
MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now
that I think you must be a man of _our_ world?
TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your
mother's heart to know that your daughter will be in good company,
I think I can give you that comfort.
MOTHER. Is that all you can give me?
(The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly
he takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and
is immensely relieved thereby.
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