the b-b-b-boy: Madeleine Carlier. It is b-b-better so. It makes the piece more perverse.
And what am I to play?
Xantippe or Myrrha. . . . Zimbule must play the boy, Clinias.
You seem more interested in casting Zimbule than in arranging a part for me, Campaspe bantered.
You shall play Myrrha. It is the b-b-b-best rôle.
Do I have scenes with you?
With me, with Zimbule, with everybody. There are two servants, but their parts present no difficulty, and a dancer. I can arrange that. A Byzantine Afternoon! What an opera for New York! July is already the season.
If you can get an audience, put in Paul.
Ah! They will come in f-f-from the mountains. They will rush over from London. The Aquitania will b-b-bulge.
There's no part for me, I take it, Paul remarked.
You can be a stage-hand; Harold, an electrician.
He will have to join the union, said Campaspe. Then, more seriously. There's something there. None of you understands Harold. I like the boy.
So do I, said Paul.
Firebird, we all d-d-do, protested the Duke. And I understand him. He is like a silver flamingo.
A silver flamingo?
Yes, glowing, glamourous, shining—like Galahad
