War. And I doubt whether the lion that won't even whisk his tail, will get food enough shoved through his bars to make it worth his while to keep a cage in London.
Ger. I certainly shall not make use of myself to recommend my work.
War. What is it now?
Ger. Oh, nothing!—only a little fancy of my own.
War. There again! The moment I set foot in your study, you throw the sheet over your clay, and when I ask you what you are working at—"Oh—a little fancy of my own!"
Ger. I couldn't tell it was you coming.
War. Let me see what you've been doing, then.
Ger. Oh, she's a mere Lot's-wife as yet!
War. (approaching the figure). Of course, of course! I understand all that.
Ger. (laying his hand on his arm). Excuse me: I would rather not show it.