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“It is Durand’s turn,” says Dupont.

“No, it is Madame Durand’s,” states M. Duval.

“No, it is my turn—I haven’t played for twenty minutes,” protests the shrill voice of little Marie Dupont.

“Apparently it is somebody’s turn,” says M. Durand ironically.

And then do the three gentlemen respectively declare that the “situation” is “extraordinary” and “abominable” and—yes, “sinister”; and then, also, do the three wives proclaim their lords “egoists” and—Oh dear me—“imbeciles,” and then (profiting by the dispute) do the many children of the Duponts and the Durands and Duvals kick about the balls, and hop over (or dislodge) the hoops, and (when reprimanded) burst into tears.

“It’s mad,” cries M. Durand.

“Auguste, you disgust me,” says Madame Dupont to her husband.

“Mamma, Henri Durand has pulled my hair,” sobs little Germaine Duval.

At length on goes the game. But ten minutes later the same confusion, the same cries: “It’s my turn,” and “No, it is the turn of Madame Dupont,” and “I’ve only played once in the last hour,” and “The situation is becoming more and more sinister.”