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the green lodges
Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!
(Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass beneath the windows, singing in discord.)
stephen
Hark! Our friend, noise in the street!
zoe
(Holds up her hand.) Stop!
private carr, private compton and cissy caffrey
Yet I’ve a sort a
Yorkshire relish for…
zoe
That’s me. (She claps her hands.) Dance! Dance! (She runs to the pianola.) Who has twopence?
bloom
Who’ll…
lynch
(Handing her coins.) Here.
stephen
(Cracking his fingers impatiently.) Quick! Quick! Where’s my augur’s rod? (He runs to the piano and takes his ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium.)
zoe
(Turns the drumhandle.) There.
(She drops two pennies in the slot. Gold pink and violet lights start forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Professor Goodwin, in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room, his hands fluttering. He sits tinily on the piano stool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the keyboard, nodding with damsels grace, his bowknot bobbing.)
