[Leopold and Charlie leave the club. Charlie is fuming because Leopold has enthralled Patrice, Charlie's love interest]
Charlie:
And I would have gotten her number if you hadn't turned the evening into a guided tour of the Louvre!
Leopold:
My apologies.
Charlie:
Let's get one thing straight. Patrice, she thought you were cute - probably gay, and cute - and cute, Leo, that's just the kiss of death.
Leopold:
Perhaps.
Charlie:
Perhaps? Certainly!
Leopold:
[produces a napkin]
I believe this is her number.
[Charlie takes it from him in disbelief]
Leopold:
As I see it, Patrice has not an inkling of your affections, and it's no wonder. You, Charles, are a merry-andrew.
Charlie:
A what?
Leopold:
Everything plays a farce to you. Women respond to sincerity. No-one wants to be romanced by a buffoon. Now, that number rings her.
Charlie:
Yes?
Leopold:
So ring her tomorrow.
Charlie:
I can't. She gave the number to you.
Leopold:
Only because I told her of your affections.
Charlie:
[taken aback]
Wha - what did you say?
Leopold:
Merely that you admired her, but you were hesitant to make an overture, as you'd been told she was courting another.
Charlie:
Shit... that's good! Well, what did she say?
Leopold:
She handed me the napkin.
[Charlie rushes under a lit store window to read the napkin, and starts dialing his cell phone]
Leopold:
Charles, it's quite late.
Charlie:
No, no, she won't be home yet. I get her machine and leave a message, ball's in her court.
Leopold:
You're ladling calculation upon comedy. The point is, to keep the ball in *your* court.
Charlie:
[slaps his phone shut]
You're right! You're right!
