"More spectacular," Cecil said. "It'll cause more comment."
"That's so understated," Toffee said, "it's below the level of reason." She looked at Marc. "They're mad," she said, "raving."
"I know," Marc said in hushed tones. "They're just mad enough."
"Oh, you bet we are," Cecil said with a sudden mood of happiness. "We're regular ogres, aren't we, Gerald?"
"Well, I wouldn't say regular ogres," Gerald answered.
"Would you say irregular ogres?"
"No," Gerald said with due consideration. "Irregular sort of suggests those advertisements. You know the ones about people who are uncomfortable because...."
"Just listen to them!" Toffee moaned. "They're planning on blowing up the city and they go on about it as giddy as a couple of spinsters in spring! What difference does it make what kind of ogres you are? You're perfectly abhorrent, both of you."
Cecil smiled his crooked smile at Toffee. "Thanks," he said modestly.
"Don't mention it," Toffee said. She turned away with a little shiver. Then suddenly she brightened. Gerald had just brought the car to a stop at an intersection. At the center of the street a truly enormous cop was presiding over traffic. Toffee looked back at the revolver in Cecil's hand, then at the cop. She decided to risk it. She threw back her head and screamed with all the sureness and tonal brilliance of an operatic heroine saying farewell to her lover.