Celia: Do you come here often?
Trevor: You mean to the third class lounge of the discontinued Grumbling to Firth of Forth line?
Celia: The one where they forgot to lock the bar?
Trevor: Hush, Madam. Don’t want to spoil a good thing.
Trevor: you talk ever so strangely. Are you English then?
Celia: Yes, of course. Look at these oddly unattractive clothes I’m wearing.
Trevor: Good lord yes. Do I talk queer as well?
Celia (rolling her eyes as she pours them both another tequila): Live nearby?
Trevor: Just down the way, at The Vicarage, Stool, The Nasal Passage, Chitlings.
Celia: How droll; we are neighbors. I have a bed-sit at The Parsonage, Dreary-Night, Lower Offal.
Trevor: Rum go that!
Celia: Rum go? Where in the world did you pick that up?
Trevor: Tony Newley.
Celia: Tony, of course. You married?
Trevor: Rather, old girl. You?
Celia: Would I be sitting here talking to you if I wasn’t? Employed?
Trevor: Let’s say I’m a doctor.
Celia: Let’s not. Let’s say you’re an actor. More glamorous, more sexually ambiguous, especially with that light makeup I notice you are wearing.
Trevor: And let’s say you’re a common Calabrese slut. Would you mind terribly wearing a pencil mustache for me?
Celia: You are a naughty poof then.
Trevor: Shall we get a room, old stick?
Celia: Why waste time? Just lower your trousers, Trevor, bend over, and I will give you all the old stick you can handle right here and now.
Trevor: Good show! Lay on, Celia Johnson, you bloody whore!
David Lean: Cut! No names! Please, I told you. No names!