The Irr. P. No, Sir, and I'm not likely to have as long as—
[He listens with fierce determination.
First Ghostly Voice. Stop! Hear me—I can explain everything!
Second Do. Do. I will hear nothing, I tell you!
First Do. Do. You shall—you must! Listen. I am the only surviving mumble of your unshle groolier.
The Ch. O.G. (as before). I think it must be a Melodrama and not an Opera after all—from the language!
An Innocent Matron (who is listening, with her eyes devoutly fixed on the Libretto of "The Mountebanks," under the firm conviction that she is in direct communication with the Lyric Theatre.) I always understood The Mountebanks was a musical piece, my dear, didn't you? and even as it is, they don't seem to keep very close to the words, as far as I can follow!
Ghostly Voices (in the Irritable Person's ear as before). "Your wife?" "Yes, my wife, and the only woman in the world I ever loved!"
The Irr. P. (pleased, to himself.) Come, now I'm getting accustomed to it, I can hear capitally!
The Voices. Then why have you—?...I will tell you all. Twenty-five years ago, when a shinder foodle in the Borjeezlers I—