without body phantoms, all in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. The walls are tapestried with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. In the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers. Lynch squats crosslegged on the hearthrug of matted hair, his cap back to the front. With a wand he beats time slowly. Kitty Ricketts, a bony pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a coral wristlet, a chain purse in her hand, sits perched on the edge of the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the gilt mirror over the mantelpiece.

A tag of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. Lynch indicates mockingly the couple at the piano.)

KITTY: (Coughs behind her hand.) She’s a bit imbecillic. (She signs with a waggling forefinger.) Blemblem.