Host (bowing). When will the blessed day come when I can treat you and your damned likes—?
[The Commissaire meets Grain in the doorway. Grain is in absolute rags and gives a start when he sees the Commissaire. The latter looks at him first, smiles, and then turns courteously to Host. ]
Commissaire. One of your artists already? [Exit.]
Grain (whining pathetically). Good evening.
Host (after looking at him for a long time). If you're one of my troupe, I won't grudge you my recognition ... of your art, because I don't recognize you.
Grain. What do you mean?
Host. No jests now; take off your wig; I'd rather like to know who you are. (He pulls at his hair.)
Grain. Oh, dear!
Host. But 'tis genuine! Heavens—who are you? You appear to be a real ragamuffin.
Grain. I am!