Then there are flowers to be painted on velvet—the new romance to be read—or some invention of novel embellishment to be discussed with your Mlle. Jacinthe, Hyacinthe, or whatever poetic name may euphoniously designate your Parisian priestess of the mirror.

Well, that goes to show you.

The lions in question were nonplussed. “They just stuck their noses into the wind, looked around and slumped down again into the grass,” the now 73-year-old recalls.

The words “horror” and “hell” fit nicely with Howard Beach for the head line alliterationists.