THE OFFICER. No, that wouldn't do. [In a lowered voice] It is Indra's own daughter.
MASTER OF Q. Indra's? And I was thinking of Varuna himself—Well, are you not surprised to find me black in the face?
THE OFFICER. I am past fifty, my boy, and at that age one has ceased to be surprised. I concluded at once that you were bound for some fancy ball this afternoon.
MASTER OF Q. Right you were! And I hope both of you will come along.
THE OFFICER. Why, yes—for I must say—the place does not look very tempting. What kind of people live here anyhow?
MASTER OF Q. Here you find the sick; over there, the healthy.
THE OFFICER. Nothing but poor folk on this side, I suppose.
MASTER OF Q. No, my boy, it is here you find the rich. Look at that one on the rack. He has stuffed himself with paté de foie gras and truffles and Burgundy until his feet have grown knotted.
THE OFFICER. Knotted?
MASTER OF Q. Yes, he has a case of knotted feet. And that one who lies under the guillotine—he has swilled brandy so that his backbone has to be put through the mangle.