A corner table in a Broadway restaurant, at evening. Between the man and woman who have just taken seats is a bouquet of red roses.
No, I don’t want any oysters or clams. I ate enough sea food in Atlantic City to last a season. I want some—Oh, what gorgeous flowers! Umm! I love the smell of roses! Especially out of season. Why, the other tables haven’t any! Fred, did you—?
Sure I did, Marian. I knew you’d like ’em.
I do. But you mustn’t be a silly boy any longer, Fred!
I will, too. It isn’t silly, to give you flowers.
That’s all right, Fred. Goodness knows I like the flowers. But I’m not a young idiot who expects her honeymoon to last forever. I’ve had one experience, you know.
Yes, but you mustn’t judge all men by him.
I don’t. I knew well enough you’re different, or I’d never have married you. But at the same time—
Well, I’m going to show you that a real man don’t get over the fun of being married to a peach like you in just two weeks. You don’t want me to, do you?
Course not, Fred! Didn’t I say you were different? But I don’t want you to set a pace you can’t keep up. You’d hate me in no time if I did.
I couldn’t hate you, girlie! Besides, isn’t this our first night back in the old town? We shan’t be having dinner out like this every day.
Well, only I don’t want to have you flop all of a sudden, like he did. What’ll you have, a cocktail?
Let’s see.... What’s the matter, Marian?
Sh! Don’t turn round!
Good Lord! Well, don’t mind him. He hasn’t got anything on you now. You’re mine.