MRS. SCHUYLER:  Turn up the lights!

LETTY:  Our last night in Persia.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  I’ve ordered my “paflouka” out here. (MRS. SCHUYLER crosses to rosebush and, DOWLER jumps out at her.) Mercy—­how you scared me!

DOWLEH:  Fatima!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Now, I’m a cigarette!

DOWLEH:  You are cruel to me—­the noble Prince of Persia, who just to be near you, disguised himself as a cook.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Prince, I eat your cooking—­that’s kind enough.

DOWLEH:  (Business.) Yes, I love you so that one day I hear a lady say you paint your face—­I put a secret poison in her food—­she took one taste—­in ten seconds, she die.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  It serves her right for telling the truth.

DOWLEH:  Come!  Fly with me!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh Prince, I’ve flown so much in my days, there isn’t another flap left in me. (Throws him off.) Go—­serve my “paflouka!”

DOWLEH:  You throw me down—­very well—­I will be revenged. (Grinds his teeth in her ear.) Mmmm-ha!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (With start, holding ear.) He bit me. (The girls come down as DOWLEH goes off bumping into DUDLEY, who enters in dress clothes—­he swears at DUDLEY, in Persian and exits.)

DUDLEY:  (To MRS. SCHUYLER.) Oh Lena—­if it’s you that has made him mad, I’d advise you not to taste any of his food again.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Why?

DUDLEY:  I just heard he’s under suspicion of having put poison in a lady’s food, which killed her in ten seconds.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Ten seconds!  Then it was true. (Waiter enters with “paftouka.”) Oh my beautiful paflouka—­and it smells so good.

DUDLEY:  But Lena—­you daren’t touch it unless you get someone to try it first.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Will you?

DUDLEY:  Excuse me. (She turns to the three—­they all decline.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh, if heaven would only send some unsuspecting imbecile to taste my paflouka for me—­(PHIL backs on from grape arbor—­looking to see if he’s being followed.) Heaven has sent it hither. (She steps PHIL’s way.  As he bumps into her, he starts.) Hello!

PHIL:  (After start.) Hello.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Why, what’s the matter?

PHIL:  Oh, I’m faint—­for food.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Aside to others.) Oh, it’s a shame to do it. (To
PHIL.) How would you like to “paflouka” with me?

PHIL:  (After business.) No—­before I do anything else, I must eat.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  To “paflouka” is to eat.

PHIL:  Well—­hurry—­let’s do it.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (To waiter.) Now, Mousta place my “rakoush” before him.

PHIL:  (As waiter places soup and roll before him.) Oh, it looks like soup.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Crossing to him.) I always start with something hot.

PHIL:  (Takes spoonful.) It is soup! (As he goes for second spoonful, they hold his hand.)