[She fans herself violently with her programme, and 'Enery is reduced to explain that his suggestion was not seriously intended.
In the Stands—during the Native Display.
Mrs. Keyveve (to her brother, Mr. Frederick Frivell, as the Somalis are performing a marriage dance). It seems a curious kind of wedding, doesn't it, Fred? Can you make out which are the bride and bridegroom?
Mr. Frivell. Fancy that's the bride in red cotton, with her hair down, prancing with maidenly gaiety between the first bridesmaid and the best man, while the bridegroom, becomingly draped in a bath-towel, may be observed capering up and down clapping hands with the officiating clergy. A simple but impressive ceremony.
Mrs. Keyveve. Very. I wonder if they get any wedding presents.
Mr. Frivell. Rather. The sportsman in the rusty wig gave 'em Browning's poems and an afternoon tea-kettle, and the Johnny with the feathers in his wool presented her with a dressing-bag. The photo-frames, card-cases and carriage-clocks are all laid out in one of the huts, according to the savage custom of the country, guarded by a detective in the disguise of a wedding guest, armed with poisoned spears.
Mrs. Keyveve. How silly you are! Look, they're rolling along a great wicker-basket. What can they have in it—the bride's luggage, perhaps?... Why, it's an enormous snake! See, it's crawling out!
Mr. Frivell. It's the bride's going-away dress, that's all. Someone ought to tell her that boas aren't worn this season, though.
'Arriet (in the Sixpenny Promenade, to 'Arry). What are they miking all that row about—are they supposed to be torking, or what?
'Arry (vaguely). I expect they're declarin' war—against somebody or other.