The Blue Domino.  Pity you haven’t got something inside it, isn’t it?

The Parcels Post (feebly).  Don’t you be too sharp.  And it really is a first-rate idea.  All these parcels now—­I suppose there must be fifty of ’em at least—­

The Blue Domino.  Are there?  Well, I wish you’d go and get sorted somewhere else.  I haven’t time for it myself.

Sardonic Spectator (pityingly—­to a Masker in a violent perspiration, who represents Sindbad carrying the Old Man of the Sea).  ’Ow you are worrying yourself to be sure!

A Polite Stranger (accosting an Individual who is personifying the London County Council by the aid of a hat surmounted by a sky-sign, a cork bridge and a tin tramcar, a toy Clown and a butterfly on his chest, a portrait of Mlle. Zoeo on his back, a miniature fireman under an extinguisher, and a model crane, which he winds up and down with evident enjoyment).  Excuse me, Sir, but would you mind showing us round you—­or is there a catalogue to your little collection?

    [The L.C.C. maintains a dignified silence.

Pierrot (critically to Cleopatra).  Very nice indeed, my dear girl,—­except that they ought to have given you a serpent to carry, you know’

Cleopatra.  Oh, they did—­only I left it in the Cloak-room.

A Man with a False Nose (to a Friend who is wearing his natural organ).  Why, I thought you said you were coming in a nose?

His Friend.  So I did (he produces an enormous nose and cheeks from his tail-pocket).  But it’s no mortal use; the minute I put it on I’m recognised (plaintively).  And I gave one-and-ninepence for the beastly thing, too!

Young Man of the Period (meeting a female acquaintance attired in ferns, rock-work, and coloured shells, illuminated by portable electric light).  Hul-lo!  You are a swell!  And what are you supposed to be?

The Lady in Rock-work.  Can’t you see?  I’m a Fairy Grotto.  Good idea, isn’t it?

He.  Rippin’!  But what the mischief have you got on your shoulder?

She.  Oh, that’s an aquarium—­real goldfish.  See!

    [Exhibiting them with pride.

He.  Ain’t you lettin’ ’em sit up rather late?  They will be chippy to-morrow—­off colour, don’t you know.

She.  Will they?  What ought I to do for them, then?

He.  Do?  Oh, just put a brandy-and-soda in their tank.

Later; Supper is going on in the Boxes and Supper-room, and the festivity has been further increased by the arrival of a party of Low Comedians and Music-Hall Stars.  The Lancers have been danced with more abandonment, and several entirely new and original figures.

The Chevalier Bayard (at the Refreshment Bar—­to a Watteau Shepherdess).  I say, you come along and dance with me, will you?—­and look here, if you dance well, I’ll give you a drink when it’s over.  If you don t dance to please me, you’ll get nothing.  See?