I wiped the perspiration off my forehead.
"You made me good, then. I shall never give such a show again."
"Of course you will."
"Never! Never, Alice! But you—you're wonderful. Good Heavens, lass, this might be the two hundredth night you'd played the part. Are you some great one I've not recognized? And will you sign a picture-postcard for our second housemaid—the one who saw 'Buzz-Buzz' eighteen times?"
"What! Not the one with fair hair?"
"And flat feet? The very one. Junket, her name is. By Curds out of Season. My mistake. I was thinking of our beagle. Don't think I'm quite mad. I'm only drunk. You're the wine."
"The Queen is, you mean."
"No, no—you, Alice."
She looked at her wrist-watch.
"Oh, all right," I said. "The Queen's the wine, the play's the thing. Anything you like. Only I'm tired of play-acting, and I only want to talk to Alice. Come and let me introduce Pomfret."