What are you going to have to eat? Campaspe asked by way of creating a diversion.
Pickled walnuts, p-p-p-p-potted b-b-blackbirds, plovers' eggs. . . .
Paul began, unreasonably, to grin. I don't know what reminds me, he said, but have you heard about Bunny? He's had Zimbule's name tattooed on his person so cunningly that it can only be deciphered under certain conditions.
The rehearsals were very strange. A friend of Paul's had been called in to play Xantippe. After the cast was arranged the Duke remembered that he had not yet translated the play. He began to do so, and then he conceived the idea of leaving his own part in French.
I will play the charioteer in French, while the other characters play in English, he announced. It will add a fillip!
But Zimbule objected to this proposal, refusing point-blank to play her scene with him in any such manner.
The Duke began to enjoy directing the piece.
Firebird, please say that line again; a little more emphasis on the word love. . . . Miss O'Grady, please stand down centre d-d-during this scene.
But this was unnecessary. Zimbule was always standing down centre. It was difficult, if not impossible, to persuade her to stand anywhere else.
