“The present company,” said Gerald, “and Uncle Bill, with Uncle Lance supplying or adapting music, for we were not original, I assure you.”
“It was when Uncle Clem was ill,” put in Anna, “and somehow I don’t think we took in the accounts of it.”
“No,” said Gerald, “and nobody did it con amore, though we could not put it off. I should like to see it better done.”
“Such rot!” exclaimed Adrian. “There’s an old man, he was Uncle Lance with the great white beard made out of Kit’s white bear’s skin, and he lived in a desert island, where there was a shipwreck—very jolly if you could see it, only you can’t—and the savages—no, the wreckers all came down.”
“What, in a desert island?”
“It was not exactly desert. Gerald, I say, do let there be savages. It would be such a lark to have them all black, and then I’d act.”
“What an inducement!”
“Then somebody turned out to be somebody’s enemy, and the old chap frightened them all with squibs and crackers and fog-horns, till somebody turned out to be somebody else’s son, and married the daughter.”
“If you trace ‘The Tempest’ through that version you are clever,” said Gerald.
“I told you it was awful rot,” said Adrian.