Zimbule, in her boy's costume, approached.
Say, what is it?
Bunny's overture, Campaspe muttered.
Sounded like a stale calliope at Coney. Where's Harold?
Clear the stage, shouted Paul in his capacity as stage-manager.
They obeyed him and, as the silver folds parted, out into the void before a yellow satin drop walked Oliver Drains in a suit of purple tights which terminated only in a white-ruffed collar. For some time Drains had fancied himself arrayed à la John Barrymore in The Jest. He had seized his opportunity. The orchestra played Some sunny day. There was a ripple of applause for the performer. Drains bowed. He began by tossing gold balls in the air. He continued the ritual. White mice were discovered harboured in the kinky wool of a recalcitrant coon. Artificial mango bushes bloomed from empty jars. An otiose table suddenly offered support to a bowl of swimming goldfish, which, apparently, had come out of the air. The orchestra played Dear old southland. The spectators seemed to have regained their equilibrium. Only one woman, far in the back, gazed about furtively in an attempt to discover if any one recalled what her condition had been but a few brief moments earlier.
May I borrow a hat? Drains called out.
The hats were piled in the Louis XIV bedroom. One of the Duke's Ceylonese servants descended in
