Mrs Breen:  You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the part.  You were always a favourite with the ladies.

Bloom:  (Squire of dames, in dinner jacket with WATEREDSILK facings, blue Masonic badge in his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, A prismatic champagne glass tilted in his hand) Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty.

Mrs Breen:  The dear dead days beyond recall.  Love’s old sweet song.

Bloom:  (Meaningfully dropping his voice) I confess I’m teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person’s something is a little teapot at present.

Mrs Breen:  (GUSHINGLY) Tremendously teapot!  London’s teapot and I’m simply teapot all over me! (She rubs sides with him) After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman.  Under the mistletoe.  Two is company.

Bloom:  (Wearing A purple Napoleon hat with an amber Halfmoon, his fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her soft moist meaty palm which she surrenders gently) The witching hour of night.  I took the splinter out of this hand, carefully, slowly. (Tenderly, as he slips on her finger A ruby ring) la CI DAREM la Mano.

Mrs Breen:  (In A ONEPIECE evening frock executed in moonlight blue, A tinsel SYLPH’S diadem on her brow with her DANCECARD fallen beside her MOONBLUE satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing quickly) VOGLIO E non.  You’re hot!  You’re scalding!  The left hand nearest the heart.

Bloom:  When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and the beast.  I can never forgive you for that. (His clenched fist at his brow) Think what it means.  All you meant to me then. (Hoarsely) Woman, it’s breaking me!

(Denis Breen, WHITETALLHATTED, with wisdom Hely’s sandwich- boards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his dull beard thrust out, muttering to right and left.  Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the Pall of the ace of spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter.)