(Butler: His Excellency, the President of Freedonia!)
Hey, I understand we’re to have a hunt. This should be the most fun I’ve had since I shot an elephant in my pajamas!
I apologize for my lateness this morning–the trek through the house last night ended rather late, and I’m afraid I’m never one for an early morning rising.
I’ll just help myself to something from the sideboard…Oh, hello, Jeeves. Yes, I think I *could * do with a hot cup of tea. Cream and sugar, please. Thank you much.
Eve dear, I’m sorry to say I am not familiar with Dumb Crambo or Poor Puss. Care to instruct me on the rules of the game?
Dumb Crambo is merely a form of charades—acting out one word rather than a phrase. Too dull-witted for the likes of us. In Poor Puss, the gentlemen dress up in bonnets and the ladies feed them milk from a saucer, saying, “Poor puss!” The first one to laugh has to “pay a forfeit.” If you think I am making any of this up, I will whip out my 1881 copy of Parlor Games and Conundrums.
Speaking of “whip,” did Arnold vanish into the library with that riding crop?
What was an elephant doing in your pajamas, I’d like to know!
And Pixoid, this is not an atrocius tie! I have it on good authority that silk paisley goes smashingly with a flight suit!
I may be an 'eathen from the Colonies, but I was whelped in Ruislip, Middlesex, of a proper British mother, and under the arcane rules of this delightful island, I can claim to be a loyal subject of HRH. So there! Phbbbttt!
Now, has anyone seen that most delicious Falcon? Or is she in the butlers’ pantry, stuffing her face?
VB
Remember, you can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish!
I say, I have an absolutely delightful cask of Amontillado, courtesy of Master Padeye; would any of you sporting types like to tipple with me in the cellar?
I promise to leave the trowel behind!
VB
Remember, you can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish!
Vestal, darling, your tie is rather ghastly on a mostly empty stomach, especially at this time of day. But I was talking about the young man who goes by the moniker Finagle.
I think I’d enjoy whichever parlor game the assembled company picks. Do let me know which one you all decide on.
I still vote for Tableaux Vivant (pooh on you and your S, Arnold!).
What say we do The Wreck of the Mary Deare? The Last Days of Pompeii? Or how about The Sacking of Rome? I’d love to see some of you fellows in tunics . . .
< VB, dubiously >
I wouldn’t mind sacking Rome, but is she a goer?
VB
Remember, you can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish!
Tableaux Vivants sounds like a wonderful idea, Lady Eve. Much better than “Poor Puss”. Hasn’t masculine dignity been diminshed enough, that we need dress in bonnets to amuse the tender sex? I for one will not stand for it.
I have always been an admirer of the tale of Sisera and Jael. I do a wonderful Jael, and the art in which I portray her fastidiousness whilst pounding a stake through a cranium has been much complimented.
Why, Master VB! I am shocked that you would insinuate I was stuffing my face in the pantry! Everyone knows I was occupied elsewhere last night with someone I had flown in… 
Lady Eve, I shall be happy to assist you in whatever game you decide…just send someone to my room when you are ready.
(clearing her throat, licking her half-opened lips, bosoms heaving, Katy is excited to see that Falcon and VestalBlue are to join the romp)
Lady Falcon, Master Blue, so glad you could join us.
If there is any thing we can do to make your stay more pleasant, please ring.
I’m afraid Lord Winklereid is in a frightful state over the “Poor Puss” suggestion. At the risk of overstepping my station, I feel it prudent to point out that the poor man doth protest too much.
Please, Lady Eve, put the bonnet on him and and control his fury lest he takes out his wrath on the staff.
Soaking and not a little bit muddy, Miss Christina de Medele approaches the giant house, grateful to have found shelter. The door is ajar, and she timidly steps in.
Excuse me? Hello, oh! Sorry…sorry to interrupt your party…my car broke down a few miles down the road…do you have a phone?
Miss de Medele is unaccustomed to such fine surroundings, and never before has she seen women as beautiful as the ones at this party. “I must look like I crawled out of the ground…”
“…being normal is not necessarily a virtue. It rather denotes a lack of courage.”
Come in Madame…Oh, I see you are wet… Step into the parlor, take this robe and give me your wet clothes.
There…Dry yourself by the fire…Someone will be in shortly to keep you company.
Don’t worry, you are safe here…
Katy walks out with an excited gleam in her eye, looking for Lord B.
Master Bucky, we have a traveler, wet and cold, in the front parlor. Quite attractive young woman. No, no crop marks on her thighs, poor girl. Perhaps she would like to join the hunt when the weather clears…No?
I believe Lord Weineried, I mean Winkelried, despite his feigned dissent is about to play “Poor Puss” in the South Hall Parlor. Poor man. He really shouldn’t have challenged Lady Eve so openly. I expect he’ll need the soothing bath salts and salve in his room tonight.
I’ll prepare his bath later.
Oh, you poor dear—the groom will be happy to take care of your horseless carriage, just tell him where it is. He’s the one over there in a corner with . . . Oh, you might want to wait a few moments.
Let’s take you upstairs, you poor, wet, bedraggled thing. I have a lovely tea-gown you can slip into, after we’ve dried and powdered you. Just stand here. Right in front of that old family portrait . . .
VB, setting his sherry down, takes miss Christina in hand:
My dear you must be near frozen! Come, let us draw you a hot tub, and a hot toddy.
Bye the bye, miss Falcon, did you fly in, or were you flown in last night? And be careful how you answer, for as the inspector, I will take note, or anything else you fancy!
VB
Remember, you can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish!
Oh, and Miss Katy, as soon as Miss Falcon and I finish getting Miss Christina in the mood, you may feel free to heave your bosoms in my direction; I promise utter discretion, and no leering portraits.
Also, I still have some Amontillado left, which I will share with you as I show you my etchings.
Disarmingly yours,
VB
VB
Remember, you can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish!
Ahhh, good morning, all. Afternoon? Good heavens… Has anyone seen my riding crop? I had it by my side all evening, but when I looked for it, it was gone. Fortunately, the resourseful maid was able to produce Lord B’s cane, which we put to good use. I hope he doesn’t object. I see we had a lovely snow last night, and-
Pixoid! I thought I might find you here! I distinctly remember a pair of eyes bearing a strange resemblance to your own peering out at us through a portrait on the wall last night. Is this anything you care to explain? Well, come to my chambers later this afternoon, and we’ll continue this discussion.
I say again, has anyone seen my riding crop?
An infinite number of rednecks in an infinite number of pickup trucks shooting an infinite number of shotguns at an infinite number of road signs will eventually produce all the world’s great works of literature in Braille.
Miss Neuro, I suggest that you check with Miss Jasmine; I believe I saw that winsome trollop pursuing Lord B through the gardens with your crop.
VB
Remember, you can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish!
Ah, Lady de Garbage-Neurotique! Charmed to see you. I borrowed your riding crop, as my rooms hadn’t been adequately prepared, and I needed to discipline the chambermaid. Unfortunately, the outcome was such that I expect she’ll do an even worse job of preparing my rooms on my next visit!
Well, I suppose a man just has to bear up in the face of adversity. 
But thanks for the use of the riding crop; you should find it none the worse for wear.
I say, old stick, I must say admire your generous spirit toward these wretches. Were it left to me, it would have been the workhouse for the whole lot of them. Alas, I’m certain Lady Eve wouldn’t hear of it. She’s grown quite attached to these incompetent ragmuffins.
Well, I’m off to inspect the stables. Hoping to run a fox or two to ground in the morning.
When the pin is pulled, Mr.Grenade is no longer our friend.