BURGE-LUBIN. Yes: thats what gets us every time. What the deuce ought we to do? Something must be done about it, you know.
CONFUCIUS. Let us sit still, and meditate in silence on the vistas before us.
BURGE-LUBIN. By George, I believe youre right. Let us.
They sit meditating, the Chinaman naturally, the President with visible effort and intensity. He is positively glaring into the future when the voice of the Negress is heard.
THE NEGRESS. Mr President.
BURGE-LUBIN [joyfully] Yes. [Taking up a peg] Are you at home?
THE NEGRESS. No. Omega, zero, x squared.
The President rapidly puts the peg in the switchboard; works the dial; and presses the button. The screen becomes transparent; and the Negress, brilliantly dressed, appears on what looks like the bridge of a steam yacht in glorious sea weather. The installation with which she is communicating is beside the binnacle.
CONFUCIUS [looking round, and recoiling with a shriek of disgust] Ach! Avaunt! Avaunt! [He rushes from the room].
BURGE-LUBIN. What part of the coast is that?