You brought me some chocolates.

Two boxes of Hershey's.

Well, that's very American of you, Charlie. You just had to bring along some small token of opulence. Well, I don't want them. You Yanks can't even show affection without buying something.

Well don't get into a state over it. I thought you liked chocolates.

I do, but my country's at war and we're doing without chocolates for a while. And I don't want oranges or eggs or soap flakes, either. Don't show me how profitable it will be to fall in love with you, Charlie. Don't Americanize me.

You American-haters bore me to tears, Miss Barham. I've dealt with Europeans all my life. I know all about us parvenus from the States who come over here and race around your old cathedral towns with our cameras and Coca-Cola bottles... Brawl in your pubs, paw your women, and act like we own the world. We over-tip. We talk too loud. We think we can buy anything with a Hershey bar. I've had Germans and Italians tell me how politically ingenuous we are. And perhaps so. But we haven't managed a Hitler or Mussolini yet. I've had Frenchmen call me a savage because I only took half an hour for lunch. Hell, Miss Barham, the only reason the French take two hours for lunch is because the service in their restaurants is lousy. The most tedious lot are you British. We crass Americans didn't introduce war into your little island. This war, Miss Barham, to which we Americans are so insensitive, is the result of 2,000 years of European greed, barbarism, superstition, and stupidity. Don't blame it on our Coca-Cola bottles. Europe was a going brothel long before we came to town.

Dear me, what an outburst!

So lay off, Mrs. Miniver. If you don't like our Hershey bars, don't take 'em. Pick yourself a frock or get out. It's not my job to listen to your sentimental contempt.