Diane: Sam, who's sitting here?
Sam: I don't know, but his coat's been taking up bar space all night.
Diane: So I've noticed. Cashmere. Very nice. Hand stitching. Tortoiseshell buttons. This is a very expensive garment.
Sam: Doesn't look that expensive to me.
Diane: It has a Bemberg lining.
Sam: Oh, well, no fair, now. You didn't mention that.
Diane: I'm gonna hang it up. Oh, a pipe smoker. I don't believe it's a domestic blend. Sam, what do you think?
Sam: I don't smell anything.
Diane: Of course not. Your olfactory senses have been destroyed by that cologne you marinate in. Oh, I should've known. Of course, it's a perique blend. Jack Meechan, my father's partner, used to smoke it. Oh, huh, the memory's so clearly etched in my mind. He'd sit in his office smoking his pipe. I'd beg to sit in his lap, and he'd say, "Okay, little miss, but you have to pay the toll first." So I'd give him a big hug, and then he'd ask, "How about a tip for the gatekeeper?" So I'd give him a quick peck on the cheek, and he'd toss me in the air, yelling, "Who's your favorite uncle?" And I'd squeal, "Uncle Jack, Uncle Jack."
Sam: Was this before or after you met me?