In a Stage-box is the_ Author _herself, with a sycophantic_
Companion. _A murky gloom pervades the Auditorium; a scratch
orchestra is playing a lame and tuneless Schottische for
the second time, to compensate for a little delay of fifteen
minutes between the first and second Tableaux in the Second
Act. The orchestra ceases, and a Checktaker at the Pit door
whistles "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!" Some restless spirits stamp
feebly._
[Illustration: "Sir, a roughly-dressed stranger ... requests a few
words."]
_The Author._ I wish they would be a _little_ quicker. I've a good
mind to go behind myself and hurry them up. The audience are beginning
to get impatient.
_Her Companion._ But that shows how _interested_ they are, _doesn't_
it, dear?
_Author._ I think it _ought_ to interest them, but I _did_ expect they
would have shown a little more enthusiasm over that situation in the
last _tableau_--they're rather a _cold_ audience!
_Comp._ It's above their heads, dear, that's where it is--plays are
such rubbish nowadays, people don't appreciate a really _great_ drama
just at first.
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