The milk is running down my chin and neck. Oh, it’s tickling me.
Lean over. I’ll lick it off. We mustn’t let a drop go to waste.
You’re a cunning one.
There! Quick work. All good things soon come to an end. This bottle seems to have a double bottom. It looks so large. The glass manufacturers are terrible cheats.
[He lights the cigar with the air of a man relaxing into beatific repose. His Wife ties the red ribbon in her hair, looking at herself in the dark pane of the window.
Don’t you see?
I see everything. I see your ribbon, and I see, you want me to kiss you on your dear little bare neck.
No, sir, I won’t permit that. You’ve grown too forward of late anyway. You take such liberties. Please go on smoking your cigar and leave my neck—
What, isn’t your neck mine? I’ll be jiggered! Why, it’s an attack on the sacred rights of property (She runs away; he catches her and kisses her) So, the property rights have been restored. Now, my dear, we’ll dance. Imagine that this is a magnificent, a luxurious, a wonderful, a supernatural, ah exquisitely beautiful palace.
Very well. I’m imagining it.
Imagine you’re the queen of the ball.
All right. It is imagined.
And that counts, marquises, and dukes come up and ask you to dance. But you refuse. You choose that one—What’s his name?—the one in uniform—the prince. What’s the matter?
I don’t like princes.
Indeed? Then whom do you like?
Very well. Here’s one for you. Why, girl, what are you doing? Are you flirting with the air?
I am imagining.
All right. Imagine a wonderful orchestra. Here is the Turkish drum—boom, boom, boom! (He strikes his fist on the table as on a drum)