"Jew-sheets!" roared Frederick Augustus.
"Since you don't understand a word of English, you couldn't distinguish the London Times from the Hebrew At Work." After this sally, I added maliciously: "I'm going to the Opéra Comique tonight. Come along?"
"You are not going to the Opéra Comique," shouted Frederick Augustus.
"You don't want me to go, papa don't want me to go, uncle and aunt and cousins don't? So many reasons more why I shall go. I announced my coming and I will go, if I have to tear the ropes, by which you might bind me hand and foot, with my teeth."
I rang the bell and ordered dinner served half an hour earlier than usual. Then I went to my dressing room to inspect the new gown that I intended to wear at the theatre.
Girardi night! Girardi, the famous Vienna comedian! I never saw him. His humor will act as a tonic. Just what I need. I will die if I breathe none other but the air of this palace, that reeks with cheap pretensions, Jesuitical puritanism, envy and hatred, where every second person is a spy of either the King or George.
I must escape the polluted atmosphere for a few hours, at least, and laugh, laugh, LAUGH.
11:30 P.M.
I have seen Girardi. I have laughed. I saw the Dolores. And I don't blame Kyril a bit.