MRS. SCHUYLER: No, dear boy—it's ours. (She starts to eat.)
PHIL: I guess that's what they call to paflouka.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, it tastes good.
PHIL: It sounds good.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Now, Mousta, my bird and salad. (He exits.)
PHIL: I hope the bird's an ostrich. (He hears MRS. SCHUYLER drink soup.) (Enter MOUSTA—crosses with bird to MRS. SCHUYLER.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: No—place it before him.
PHIL: Yes—put it down—put it down.
MRS. SCHUYLER: No one can cook a bird like Princey.
PHIL: A bird? It looks like an insect! (He sees them approaching him as before and grabbing the bird in his hand starts to make off with it—they seize him and throw him into chair.)