Ulysses
the gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box of the Theatre
Royal at a command performance of La Cigale. I deeply in-
flamed him, he said. He made improper overtures to me to
misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the following
Thursday, Dunsink time. He offered to send me through the
post a work of fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled
The Girl with the Three Pairs of Stays.
MRS BELLINGHAM: (In cap and seal coney mantle,
wrapped up to the nose, steps out of her brougham and scans
through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she takes from
inside her huge opossum muff) Also to me. Yes, I believe
it is the same objectionable person. Because he closed my
carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker’s one sleety day
during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even
the grid of the wastepipe and the ballstop in my bath cistern
were frozen. Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss
culled on the heights, as he said, in my honour. I had it ex-
amined by a botanical expert and elicited the information
that it was ablossom of the homegrown potato plant pur-
loined from a forcingcase of the model farm.
MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Shame on him!
(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward)
THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (Screaming) Stop
thief! Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Three cheers for Ikey Mo!
SECOND WATCH: (Produces handcuffs) Here are the
darbies.
MRS BELLINGHAM: He addressed me in several hand-
writings with fulsome compliments as a Venus in furs and
alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer