Maitre D': May I help you, madame?
Sophia: How d'you know I'm not a mademoiselle?
Maitre D': Because what man in his right mind would leave you to languish on the vine?
Sophia: If this was Sicily, you wouldn't have any lips left. Take me to my friend Martha Lamont's table, and try not to fall in love.
Maitre D': Miss Lamont is waiting for you at the bar.
Sophia: Oh, good. With luck, she found somebody who'll pay for dinner.