Tourist [overwhelmed]. You don't say?
Aleck. Children, listen. Plumb from the sky.
Military Woman. Yes, yes. I saw an aëronaut drop from the clouds and go crash upon an iron roof.
Tourist. How terrible!
Military Woman. That's what I call a tragedy. It took two hours to bring me back to consciousness, and all that time they pumped water on me, the scoundrels. I was nearly drowned. From that day on I never step out of the door without taking spirits of ammonia with me.
[Enter a strolling troop of Italian singers and musicians: a short, fat tenor, with a reddish beard and large, watery, stupidly dreamy eyes, singing with extraordinary sweetness; a skinny humpback with a jockey cap, and a screeching baritone; a bass who is also a mandolinist, looking like a bandit; a girl with a violin, closing her eyes when she plays, so that only the whites are seen. They take their stand and begin to sing: "Sul mare lucica—Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia—"]
Mary [dismally]. Papa, children, look. He is beginning to wave his hands.
Tourist. Is that the effect the music has upon him?
Military Woman. Quite possible. Music usually goes with such things. But that'll make him fall sooner than he should. Musicians, go away from here! Go!
[A tall tourist, with up-curled mustache, violently gesticulating, enters, followed by a small group attracted by curiosity.]