“And as Clytemnestra, you always killed Agamemnon with ruthless punctuality. I was always hoping to hear him scream during the next Chorus but one.”
“I did the screaming for him,” said the Babe complacently, “except on the first night. He could only scream like an empty syphon.”
“There is nothing more tragic or blood-curdling than the scream of an empty syphon,” said Stewart. “It shrieks to you, like a banshee of all the whisky and soda you have drunk. The only thing that could shriek worse would be an empty whisky bottle, and that can’t shriek at all. If he really could scream like that, you robbed him of a chance of greatness by screaming for him, although you screamed very well.”
“There are syphons and syphons,” said the Babe, “he screamed like an empty but undervitalised one, which had never really been full.”
“Babe, if you talk about undervitalised syphons during fish,” said Reggie, “you will drive us all mad, before the end of dinner.”
“Going mad,” said Mr. Stewart, “is an effort of will. I could go mad in a minute if I wished, and the Babe certainly determined to go mad when he was yet a boy. No offence meant, Babe. I can confidently state that during the three years I have known him, he has never for a moment seemed to be really sane.”
“I was perfectly sane when I settled to go in for the tripos,” said the Babe.
“You never settled to do anything of the kind. You think you did and it is one of your wildest delusions.”
“Secondly I was sane,” said the Babe, “when I—”
“No you weren’t,” put in Reggie.