Herr V.K. (to the M. in E.D).  You are gvide sure, Sare, you leaf nossing insoide of your ’at?

The M. in E.D. (with a wink to his neighbours).  On the contrary, there are several little things there belonging to me, which I’ll thank you to give me back by-and-by.

Herr V.K. (diving into the hat).  So?  Vat ’ave we ’ere?  A bonch of flowairs!  Anozzer bonch of flowairs?  Anozzer—­and anozzer!  Ha, do you alvays garry flowairs insoide your ’at, Sare?

The M. in E.D.  Invariably—­to keep my head cool; so hand them over, please; I want them.

[His Companions titter, and declare “it really is too bad of him!"

Herr V.K..  Bresently, Sare,—­zere is somtings ailse, it feels loike—­yes, it ees—­a mahouse-drap.  Your haid is drouble vid moice, Sare, yes?  Bot zere is none ’ere in ze ’at!

The M. in E.D. (with rather feeble indignation.) I never said there were.

Herr V.K.  No, zere is no mahouse—­bot—­[diving again]—­ha! a leedle vide rad!  Anozzer vide rad!  And again a vide rad—­and one, two, dree more vide rads!  You vind zey keep your haid noice and cool, Sare?  May I drouble you to com and dake zem avay?  I don’t loike ze vide rads myself, it is madder of daste. [The Audience snigger. ] Oh, but vait—­zis is a most gonvenient ’at—­[extracting a large feeding-bottle and a complete set of baby-linen]—­ze shentelman is vairy domestic, I see.  And zere is more yet, he is goot businessman, he knows how von must hadvertise in zese ’ere toimes.  ’E ’as ’elp me, so I vill ’elp ’im by distributing some of his cairculars for ’im.

[He showers cards, commending somebody’s self-adjusting trousers amongst the Audience, each person receiving about two dozen—­chiefly in the eye—­until the air is dark, and the floor thick with them.

The M. in E.D. (much annoyed).  Infernal liberty!  Confounded impudence!  Shouldn’t have had my hat if I ’d known he was going to play the fool with it like this!

First Lady in Plush Cloak.  But I thought you knew what was coming?

The M. in E.D.  So I did—­but this fellow does it differently.

[Herr VON K. is preparing to fire a marked half-crown from a blunderbuss into a crystal casket.

A Lady with Nerves (to her husband).  JOHN, I’m sure he’s going to let that thing off!

John (a Brute).  Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if he is. I can’t help it.

The L. with N.  You could if you liked—­you could tell him my nerves won’t stand it—­the trick will be every bit as good if he only pretends to fire, I’m sure.

John.  Oh, nonsense!—­you can stand it very well if you like.

The L. w.  N.  I can’t, John....  There, he’s raising it to his shoulder.  JOHN, I must go out.  I shall scream if I sit here, I know I shall!