PIERROT: Columbine, I’m a philanthropist. I know I am, Because I feel so restless. Do not scream, Or it will be the worse for you! COLUMBINE: Pierrot, My vinaigrette! I cannot _live_ without My vinaigrette! PIERROT: My only love, you are _So_ fundamental! . . . How would you like to be An actress, Columbine?—I am become Your manager. COLUMBINE: Why, Pierrot, _I_ can’t act. PIERROT: Can’t act! Can’t act! La, listen to the woman! What’s that to do with the price of furs?—You’re blonde, Are you not?—you have no education, have you?— Can’t act! You underrate yourself, my dear! COLUMBINE: Yes, I suppose I do. PIERROT: As for the rest, I’ll teach you how to cry, and how to die, And other little tricks; and the house will love you. You’ll be a star by five o’clock . . . that is, If you will let me pay for your apartment. COLUMBINE: _Let_ you?—well, that’s a good one! Ha! Ha! Ha! But why? PIERROT: But why?—well, as to that, my dear, I cannot say. It’s just a matter of form. COLUMBINE: Pierrot, I’m getting tired of caviar And peacocks’ livers. Isn’t there something else That people eat?—some humble vegetable, That grows in the ground? PIERROT: Well, there are mushrooms. COLUMBINE: Mushrooms! That’s so! I had forgotten . . . mushrooms . . . mushrooms. . . . I cannot _live_ with . . . How do you like this gown? PIERROT: Not much. I’m tired of gowns that have the waist‐line About the waist, and the hem around the bottom,— And women with their breasts in front of them!— Zut and ehè! Where does one go from here! COLUMBINE: Here’s a persimmon, love. You always liked them. PIERROT: I am become a critic; there is nothing I can enjoy. . . . However, set it aside; I’ll eat it between meals. COLUMBINE: Pierrot, do you know, Sometimes I think you’re making fun of me. PIERROT: My love, by yon black moon, you wrong us both. COLUMBINE: There isn’t a sign of a moon, Pierrot. PIERROT: Of course not. There never was. “Moon’s” just a word to swear by. “Mutton!”—now _there’s_ a thing you can lay the hands on, And set the tooth in! Listen, Columbine: I always lied about the moon and you. Food is my only lust. COLUMBINE: Well, eat it, then, For Heaven’s sake, and stop your silly noise! I haven’t heard the clock tick for an hour. PIERROT: It’s ticking all the same. If you were a fly, You would be dead by now. And if I were a parrot, I could be talking for a thousand years! [Enter COTHURNUS.] PIERROT: Hello, what’s this, for God’s sake?— What’s the matter? Say, whadda you mean?—get off the stage, my friend, And pinch yourself,—you’re walking in your sleep! COTHURNUS: I never sleep. PIERROT: Well, anyhow, clear out. You don’t belong on here. Wait for your own scene! Whadda you think this is,—a dress‐rehearsal? COTHURNUS: Sir, I am tired of waiting. I will wait No longer. PIERROT: Well, but whadda you going to do? The scene is set for me! COTHURNUS: True, sir; yet I Can play the scene. PIERROT: Your scene is down for later!