Busy scene. Enthralling spectacle. There he is, eating; shoving
sausages into himself against the clock just as Robert had shovelled
porridge into himself against the clock. One ministrant is sewing
a button on to his boot, another with blotting paper and hot iron
is removing a stain from his coat, divested for the purpose; one
is pouring out his coffee, another is cutting his bread, a third is
watching for his newspaper by the postman. And suddenly he whirls
everything into a whirlpool just as men, if Rosalie watches them
long enough, always whirl everything into a whirlpool.

"Oh, my goodness, the pump!"

Chorus, "The pump?"

"The bicycle pump! Has that young brute taken the bicycle pump?"

"Yes, he took it. I saw it."

Commotion.

"Catch him across the field! Catch him across the field! Where
are my boots? Where the devil are my boots? Well, never mind the
infernal button. How am I going to get to the bank with a flat tyre?
Can't some one catch him across the field instead of all standing
there staring?"

Away they go! Rosalie, seeking a good place for the glorious
spectacle, is knocked over in the stampede for the door. Nobody
minds Rosalie. Rosalie doesn't mind--anything to see this entrancing