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     — I see. Very good now. It is in your orangery, I take it, you 
have your letters. Can you hear here me, you sir?
     — Throsends. For my darling. Typette! 
     — So long aforetime? Can you hear better? 
     — Millions. For godsends. For my darling dearling one. 
     — Now, to come nearer zone; I would like to raise my 
deuterous point audibly touching this. There is this maggers.
I am told by our interpreter, Hanner Esellus, that there are fully
six hundred and six ragwords in your malherbal Magis lande-
guage in which wald wand rimes alpman and there is resin in all
roots for monarch but yav hace not one pronouncable teerm that
blows in all the vallums of tartallaght to signify majestate, even
provisionally, nor no rheda rhoda or torpentine path or halluci-
nian via nor aurellian gape nor sunkin rut nor grossgrown trek
nor crimeslaved cruxway and no moorhens cry or mooner's
deri-
mynus
hoc intelligow.
     — How? C'est mal prononsable, tartagliano, perfrances. Vous 
n'avez pas d'o dans votre boche provenciale, mousoo. Je m'in-
cline mais Moy jay trouvay la clee dang les champs. Hay sham nap
poddy velour, come on!
     — Hep there! Commong, sa na pa de valure? Whu's teit dans 
yur jambs? Whur's that inclining and talkin about the messiah
so cloover? A true's to your trefling! Whure yu!
     — Trinathan partnick dieudonnay. Have you seen her? 
Typette, my tactile O!
     — Are you in your fatherick, lonely one? 
     — The same. Three persons. Have you seen my darling only 
one? I am sohohold!
     — What are yu shevering about, ultramontane, like a houn? 
Is there cold on ye, doraphobian? Or do yu want yur primafairy
schoolmam?
     — The woods of fogloot! O mis padredges! 
     — Whisht awhile, greyleg! The duck is rising and you'll wake 
that stand of plover. I know that place better than anyone. Sure,