Sylvia Robertson: [nods toward foreigner] Russian.
Mr. Robertson: Armenian.
Sylvia Robertson: Maybe Bulgarian.
Mr. Robertson: Vulgarian.
[chuckles]
Mr. Robertson: Whatever he is, he's got whiskers like a goat.

Sylvia Robertson: Come up then, you Eskimo Romeo.

Mr. Robertson: Confound these French menus. They're Greek to me.

Mr. Westlake: And how goes things at the Palace? All your guests quite happy?
Max Tracey: Oh, much the same as usual, sir. Everyone tends to be pessimistic before dinner and optimistic after dinner.
Mr. Westlake: And the ladies?
Max Tracey: The sins of the mothers have become the principles of the daughters.

Max Tracey: Who's that lady?
Hotel clerk: 210-11-12.
Max Tracey: But her name?
Hotel clerk: Robertson. MISS Robertson. Miss Sylvia Robertson. Here with her Pa. Arrived yesterday from Johannesburg. Leaves tomorrow. Destination: the Austrian Tyrol. Age: 20. Unmarried. FEMALE. Is there anything else you'd like to know?