shoulders. Leaves. There is a prevailing silence and heads are bowed respectfully.)
Scene VI
Private supper room in a cabaret. Darkness, with a lighted doorway. Subdued dance music.
Waiter (Opens the door, and switches on red shaded lamps.)
Cashier (Enters, evening clothes, coat, silk muffler, gold headed bamboo cane.)
Waiter.—Will this room suit you, sir?
Cashier.—Well enough.
Waiter (Takes coat, etc.)
Cashier (Turns his back and looks into a mirror.)
Waiter.—How many places shall I lay, sir?
Cashier.—Twenty-four. I'm expecting my grandma, my mamma, my wife and several aunts. The supper is to celebrate my daughter's confirmation.
Waiter (Stares at him.)
Cashier (To the other's reflection in the mirror).—Donkey! Two places! Else why do you furnish these discreet little cabins with a sofa and a dim red light?
Waiter.—What brand would you prefer?
Cashier.—Leave that to me, my oily friend: I shall know which flower to pluck in the ball-room—round or slender, a bud or a full-blown rose. I shall not require your invaluable services. No doubt they are invaluable—or have you a fixed tariff?
Waiter.—What brand of champagne, if you please?
Cashier.—Ahem! Grand Marnier.
Waiter.—That's a liqueur, sir.
Cashier.—Then I leave it to you.
Waiter.—Two bottles of Pommery—extra dry. (Producing menu card.) And for supper?
Cashier.—Pinnacles.
Waiter.—Oeufs pochés Bergère? Poulét grillé? Steak de veau truffé? Parfait de foie gras en croute? Salade coeur de laitue?
Cashier.—Pinnacles, pinnacles from the soup to the savoury.
Waiter.—Pardon?
Cashier (Tapping him on the nose).—A pinnacle is the point of perfection—the summit of a work of art. So it must be with your pots and pans. The last word in delicacy. The menu of menus
