In another corner of the cardroom, looking out on the glittering waters, occasionally opening a battered volume of Shakespeare containing a secret derringer compartment currently filled with emptiness, sits a strangely familiar figure draped in an occasionally tear-stained, occasionally tar-stained cape,and himself fitfully illuminated by the swinging lamp. He sighs, and speaks to himself about his most recent adventures in this region, alas, following on too closely the infamous Duke and the King, who somewhat damaged (if such is possible) the desire for Bardic ebullience along the river (not to put to fine a point on it):"Like to the Pontic sea, whose icy current and compulsive course ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on to the Propontic and the Hellespont, the envious siege of watery Neptune, now bound in with shame, with inky blots!!!" He stretches out a tremulous arm in the attitude of Gloucester moving towards the sea edge: a gesture that caused a stout lady in the balcony of a classic performance in New York to precipitate herself forward and over, crushing a row of the cream of society and complicating seating arrangements at subsequent Manhattan dinner parties for the better part of a year: "I second that request: music, moody food of us that trade in love!!!!!"