Ciccio smiled sneeringly.
“Voyez, un cochon de lait,” said Gigi amply and calmly.
Ciccio sat down in his chair. Geoffrey poured out some beer for him, saying:
“Drink, my Cic’, the bubble has burst, prfff!” And Gigi knocked in his own puffed cheek with his fist. “Allaye, my dear, your health! We are the Tawaras. We are Allaye! We are Pacohuila! We are Walgatchka! Allons! The milk-pig is stewed and eaten. Voilà!” He drank, smiling broadly.
“One by one,” said Geoffrey, who was a little drunk: “One by one we put them out of the field, they are hors de combat. Who remains? Pacohuila, Walgatchka, Allaye—”
He smiled very broadly. Alvina was sitting sunk in thought and torpor after her sudden anger.
“Allaye, what do you think about? You are the bride of Tawara,” said Geoffrey.
Alvina looked at him, smiling rather wanly.
“And who is Tawara?” she asked.
He raised his shoulders and spread his hands and swayed his head from side to side, for all the world like a comic mandarin.