“I can turn you into a bird,” the Wizard says. “You can fly to the palace and walk and watch ever on that terrace in the rose gardens above the sea.”
“What bird?” she asks, trembling.
“You shall have the form of the white paddy bird, because, though a woman and foolish as women ever are, you are very pure ivory. O! daughter of man and of love.”
To this mah phru dissents. She paces the long room.
“Transform me into a peacock; they are more beautiful.”
The Wizard, leaning on his elbow, smiles, and the smile is a revelation of a mocking comprehension.
“So be it.” He bows his head.
The lights fade one by one.
curtain