“Where the hormones, there moan I,” said Coleman, skidding off sideways along the slippery word. “I hear, by the way, that there’s a lovely prostitute in this play.”
“You’ve missed her,” said Mrs. Viveash.
“What a misfortune,” said Coleman. “We’ve missed the delicious trull,” he said, turning to the young man.
The young man only laughed.
“Let me introduce, by the way,” said Coleman. “This is Dante,” he pointed to the dark-haired boy; “and I am Virgil. We’re making a round tour—or, rather, a descending spiral tour of hell. But we’re only at the first circle so far. These, Alighieri, are two damned souls, though not, as you might suppose, Paolo and Francesca.”
The boy continued to laugh, happily and uncomprehendingly.
“Another of these interminable entr’actes,” complained Mrs. Viveash. “I was just saying to Theodore here that if there’s one thing I dislike more than another, it’s a long entr’acte.” Would hers ever come to an end?
“And if there’s one thing I dislike more than another,” said the boy, breaking silence for the first time, with an air of the greatest earnestness, “it’s ... it’s one thing more than another.”
“And you’re perfectly right in doing so,” said Coleman. “Perfectly right.”
“I know,” the boy replied modestly.