The thought of Camacho's jealous antics recurred to Lily with the imminence of his return; she begged Sylvia, now that all her questions were answered, to escape. It was too late; there was a sound of footsteps upon the stairs and the noise of angry voices above deep gobbles of protested innocence from the black servant. The entrance reminded Sylvia of "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," for when Camacho came leaping into the room, as thin and active as a grasshopper, the priest was holding his coattails with one hand and with the other making the most operatic gestures of despair, like Don Basilio. In the doorway the black servant continued to gobble at everybody in turn, including the Almighty, to witness the clarity of her conscience. "What language do you speak?" Sylvia asked, sharply, while Camacho was struggling to free himself from the restraint of the priest. "I speak English! Gaddam! Hell! Five hundred hells!" the croupier shouted. "And I have sweared a swore that you will not interrupt between me myself and my Lili." Camacho raised his arm to shake his fist, and the priest caught hold of it, which made Camacho turn round and open on him with Portuguese expletives. "When you've quite done cracking Brazil nuts with your teeth, perhaps you'll listen to me," Sylvia began. "No, you hear me, no, no, no, no, no, no!" Camacho shouted. "And I will not hear you. I have heard you enough. You shall not take her away. _Putain!_" "If you want to be polite in French," Sylvia said. "Come along! _"Ce marloupatte pâle et mince_ _Se nommait simplement Navet,_ _Mais il vivait ainsi qu'un prince,_ _Il aimait les femmes qu'on rince._ _Tu comprends? Mais moi, je ne suis pas une femme qu'on rince."_ It was certainly improbable, Sylvia thought, that the croupier had understood much of Richepin's verse, but the effect of the little recitation was excellent because it made him choke. Lily now intervened, and when Sylvia beheld her soothing the inarticulate Camacho by stroking his head, she abandoned the last faint inclination to break off this match and called upon the priest to marry them at once. No doubt the priest would have been willing to begin the ceremony if he had been able to understand a word of what Sylvia said, but he evidently thought she was appealing to him against Camacho's violence, and with a view to affording the ultimate assistance of which he was capable he crossed himself and turned up his eyes to heaven. "What an awful noise there is!" Sylvia cried, and, looking round her with a sudden realization of its volume, she perceived that the negress in the doorway had been reinforced by what was presumably the cook--another negress who was joining in her fellow-servant's protestations. At the same time the priest was talking incessantly in rapid Portuguese; Camacho was probably swearing in the same language; and Lily was making a noise that was exactly half-way between a dove cooing and an ostler grooming a horse.