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 At first sight it does.

Fallacy somewhere, I fancy!

A man can do what he likes with his own?

I suppose he can.

Well, then, he can forge his own will, stoopid! On Thursday I shot a fox.

Hear, hear!

That's better. [Addressing Ghosts] Pass the fox, I think? [They assent.] Yes, pass the fox. Friday?

On Friday I forged a cheque.

Whose cheque?

Old Adam's.

But Old Adam hasn't a banker.

I didn't say I forged his banker—I said I forged his cheque. On Saturday I disinherited my only son.

But you haven't got a son.

No—not yet. I disinherited him in advance, to save time. You see—by this arrangement—he'll be born ready disinherited.

I see. But I don't think you can do that.

My good sir, if I can't disinherit my own unborn son, whose unborn son can I disinherit?

Humph! These arguments sound very well, but I can't help thinking that, if they were reduced to syllogistic form, they wouldn't hold water. Now quite understand us. We are foggy, but we don't permit our fogginess to be presumed upon. Unless you undertake to—well, suppose we say, carry off a lady? [Addressing Ghosts.] Those who are in favour of his carrying off a lady—[All hold up their hands except a Bishop.] Those of the contrary opinion? [Bishop holds up his hands.] Oh, you're never satisfied! Yes, unless you undertake to carry off a lady at once—I don't care what lady—any lady—choose your lady—you perish in inconceivable agonies.

Carry off a lady? Certainly not, on any account. I've the greatest respect for ladies, and I wouldn't do anything of the kind for worlds! No, no. I'm not that kind of baronet, I assure you! If that's all you've got to say, you'd better go back to your frames.