e. 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!

VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a pretty
picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers,
followed by the cheers of the populace--Long live Queen Violetta,
long live Queen Violetta! Those _abominable_ tarts!

KNAVE. I'm afraid that Her Ladyship is vain.

VIOLETTA. I am indeed. Isn't it fortunate?

KNAVE. Fortunate?

VIOLETTA. Well, I mean it would be fortunate if I were going to
be queen. They get so