M’Turk, in a violet silk skirt and a coquettish blue turban,

slouched forward as one thoroughly ashamed of himself.

The Slave of the Lamp climbed down from the piano,

and dispassionately kicked him.

‘Play up, Turkey,’ he said; ‘this is serious.’

But there fell on the door the knock of authority.

It happened to be King, in gown and mortar-board,

enjoying a Saturday evening prowl before dinner.

‘Locked doors! Locked doors!’ he snapped with a scowl.

‘What’s the meaning of this; and what, may I ask,

is the intention of this—this epicene attire?’