THE COUNT. [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I understand.
She has taken the costumes into her own hands. She is an expert in
beautiful costumes. I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what
you are about to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by
Watteau. The heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a
dainty Harlequin, her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet
who hoodwinks the father and brings about the happiness of the lovers
a grotesque but perfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or
Sganarelle.

SAVOYARD. I see. That makes three men; and the clown and policeman
will make five. Thats why you wanted five men in the company.

THE COUNT. My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly,
silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of
a nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime! What was it after
all but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of
Grimaldi a hundred years ago? My daughter does not know of the
existence of such a thing. I refer to the graceful and charming
fantasies of the Italian and French stages of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries.

SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harlequinades are
rot. Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres. But from what Billy
Burjoyce told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about
here, and had seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she'd been away in
Venice all the time.

THE COUNT. Oh, she has not been. I should have explained that two
years ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge.