Showmen (shouting).  Amphitrite, the Marvellous Floatin’ Goddess.  Just about to commence!  This way for the Mystic Gallery—­three Illusions for threepence!  Atalanta, the Silver Queen of the Moon; the Oriental Beauty in the Table of the Sphinx, and the Wonderful Galatea, or Pygmalion’s Dream.  Only threepence!  This way for the Mystic Marvel o’ She!  Now commencing!

A Female Sightseer (with the air of a person making an original suggestion).  Shall we go in, just to see what it’s like?

Male Ditto.  May as well, now we are ’ere. (To preserve himself from any suspicion of credulity.) Sure to be a take-in o’ some sort.

[They enter a dim apartment, in which two or three people are leaning over a barrier in front of a small Stage; the Curtain is lowered, and a Pianist is industriously pounding away at a Waltz.

The F.S. (with an uncomfortable giggle).  Not much to see so far, is there?

Her Companion.  Well, they ain’t begun yet.

    [The Waltz ends, and the Curtain rises, disclosing a Cavern
    Scene. Amphitrite, in blue tights, rises through the floor.

Amphitrite (in the Gallic tongue).  Mesdarms et Messures, j’ai ’honnoor de vous sooayter le bong jour! (Floats, with no apparent support, in the air, and performs various graceful evolutions, concluding by reversing herself completely).  Bong swore, Mesdarms et messures, mes remercimongs!

    [She dives below, and the Curtain descends.

The F.S. Is that all?  I don’t see nothing in that!

Her Comp. (who, having paid for admission, resents this want of appreciation).  Why, she was off the ground the ’ole of the time, wasn’t she?  I’d just like to see you turnin’ and twisting about in the air as easy as she did with nothing to ’old on by!

The F.S. I didn’t notice she was off the ground—­yes, that was clever.  I never thought o’ that before.  Let’s go and see the other things now.

Her Comp. Well, if you don’t see nothing surprising in ’em till they’re all over, you might as well stop outside, I should ha’ thought.

The F.S. Oh, but I’ll notice more next time—­you’ve got to get used to these things, you know.

[They enter the Mystic Gallery, and find themselves in a dim passage, opposite a partitioned compartment, in which is a glass case, supported on four pedestals, with a silver crescent at the back.  The Illusions—­to judge from a sound of scurrying behind the scenes—­have apparently been taken somewhat unawares.

The Female Sightseer (anxious to please).  They’ve done that ’alf-moon very well, haven’t they?

Voice of Showman (addressing the Illusions).  Now then, ’urry up there—­we’re all waiting for you.