"You was being a bad wicked girl," she panted. "You dare to say I was being German! I hate the Germans! I am English. I am English. You dare to say I was being German!"
Upon this an Austrian girl at another table began to revile Queenie from her point of view for abusing the Germans; before ten seconds had passed the gardens were in an uproar.
A fat French Jewess stood on a table and shouted:
"Oh, les sales boches! Oh, les sales boches!"
Whereupon an Austrian girl pushed her from behind, and she crashed down into a party of Francophile young Rumanians who instantly began to throw everything within reach at a party of Germanophile young Rumanians. Glasses were shivered; fairy lamps were pulled out of the trees and hurtled through the air like Roman candles; somebody snatched a violin from the orchestra and broke it on the head of his assailant; somebody else climbed on the stage and made a speech in Rumanian, calling upon the country to intervene on behalf of the Entente, until two pro-Germans seized him and flung him down on top of the melancholy dotard who played the double-bass; the manager and the waiters rushed into the street to find the police; everybody argued with everybody else.
"Tu dis que je suis boche, moi? M—e pour toi!"
"La ferme! La ferme! Espionne! Type infecte!"
"Moi, je suis roumaine. Si tu dis que je suis hongroise, je dis que t'es une salope. Tu m'entends?"
"Oh, la vache! Elle m'a piquée!"
"Elle a bien fait! Elle a bien fait!"