Conjurer. Why are nice men such asses? [Turns to arrange the table.] That seems all right. The pack of cards that is a pack of cards. And the pack of cards that isn't a pack of cards. The hat that looks like a gentleman's hat. But which, in reality, is no gentleman's hat. Only my hat; and I am not a gentleman. I am only a conjurer, and this is only a conjurer's hat. I could not take off this hat to a lady. I can take rabbits out of it, goldfish out of it, snakes out of it. Only I mustn't take my own head out of it. I suppose I'm a lower animal than a rabbit or a snake. Anyhow they can get out of the conjurer's hat; and I can't. I am a conjurer and nothing else but a conjurer. Unless I could show I was something else, and that would be worse.
[He begins to dash the cards rather irregularly about the table. Enter Patricia.
Patricia. [Coldly] I beg your pardon. I came to get some programmes. My uncle wants them.
[She walks swiftly across and takes up the programmes.
Conjurer. [Still dashing cards about the table.] Miss Carleon, might I speak to you a moment? [He puts his hands in his pockets, stares at the table; and his face assumes a sardonic expression.] The question is purely practical.
Patricia. [Pausing at the door.] I can hardly imagine what the question can be.
Conjurer. I am the question.
Patricia. And what have I to do with that?
Conjurer. You have everything to do with it. I am the question: you....
Patricia. [Angrily.] Well, what am I?