VIOLETTA (_thoughtfully_). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Under the circumstances, I shall omit the vinegar. We don't want them too crumbly. They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully. The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come. Now I dip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice little boy's raspberry jam--I'm sorry I have to use it all, but you may lick the spoon--put them in the oven, slam the door. Now, my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest. (_She curtsies before the_ KING.) POMPDEBILE. It gave us great pleasure to see the ease with which you performed your task. You must have been practising for weeks. This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have been suffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game of checkers once more. How long a time will it take for your creation to be thoroughly done, so that it may be tested? VIOLETTA (_considering_). About twenty minutes, Pompy. POMPDEBILE (_to_ HERALD). Inform the people. Come, we will retire. (_To_ KNAVE) Let no one enter until the Lady Violetta commands. (_All exit, left, except the_ KNAVE. _He stands in deep thought, his chin in hand--then exits slowly, right. The room is empty. The cuckoo clock strikes. Presently both right and left doors open stealthily. Enter_ LADY VIOLETTA _at one door, the_ KNAVE _at the other, backward, looking down the passage. They turn suddenly and see each other._) VIOLETTA (_tearfully_). O Knave, I can't cook! Anything--anything at all, not even a baked potato. KNAVE. So I rather concluded, My Lady, a few minutes ago. VIOLETTA (_pleadingly_). Don't you think it might just happen that they turned out all right? (_Whispering_) Take them out of the oven. Let's look. KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It's possible that a miracle has occurred. (_He tries the door of the oven._) VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief. KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady. (_He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out the pan, which he puts on the table softly._) VIOLETTA (_with a look of horror_) How queer! They've melted or something. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think that they will be good for anything, Knave? KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps. VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. Isn't it dreadful! KNAVE. It is. VIOLETTA (_beginning to cry_). I don't want to be banished, especially on a mule-- KNAVE. Don't cry, My Lady. It's very--upsetting. VIOLETTA. I would make a delightful queen. The fetes that I would give--under the starlight, with soft music stealing from the shadows, fetes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young--like you and me, Knave--would find the glowing flowers of youth ready to be gathered in all their dewy freshness! KNAVE. Ah!