That’s a rhyme, my dear.... I don’t know any rhyme to studio.
Mrs. O. Nor I. You’d better begin your lecture instead of wasting time arguing with me.
[Mrs. Olangtsi begins labelling a row of lanterns.
Olang. Yes, yes—as I was about to remark,—Gentlemen, pupils, and—and others, your immediate and polite attention. The instruction it has so long been my assiduous effort to bestow on your—ah—slowly dawning intelligences, is to-day relaxed when at the stroke of noon we start to celebrate the Feast of Lanterns—the Feast of those lanterns which are so largely supplied from this emporium of the arts.
Mrs. O. Shop.
Olang. Yes—as I was saying—shop. But before we turn to scenes of distraction and relaxation I am here once more to remind you of your high and privileged calling in the traditions of Wiowani, the greatest of all the ancient Masters, whose only surviving follower and representative I am, and whose last and greatest masterpiece here stands before you for your instruction.
[Students turn: Nau-Tee knocks over Hiti’s
paint-pot.
Hiti. Propinquitous idiot!
Olang. This august picture, as you all know——
Yung. [Awaking.] I want my tea, I’m waiting for my tea. Tea—Tea—Tea!