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MISS H.Oh! Mr Vane–do you think? He seemed quite–Oh! Mr Vane [ecstatically] If only—-

VANE.[Pleased and happy] Yes, yes. All right–you were splendid. He liked it. He quite—-

MISS H.[Clasping her hand] How wonderful Oh, Mr Vane, thank you!

[She clasps his hands; but suddenly, seeing that FRUST is coming back, fits across into the curtain and vanishes.]

[The Stage, in the crude light, as empty now save for FRUST, who, in the French windows, Centre, is mumbling his cigar; and VANE, Stage Right, who is looking up into the wings, Stage Left.]

VANE.[Calling up] That lighting’s just right now, Miller. Got it marked carefully?

ELECTRICS.Yes, Mr Vane.

VANE.Good. [To FRUST who as coming down] Well, sir? So glad—-

FRUST.Mr Vane, we got little Miggs on contract?

VANE.Yes.

FRUST.Well, I liked that little pocket piece fine. But I’m blamed if I know what it’s all about.

VANE.[A little staggered] Why! Of course it’s a little allegory. The tragedy of civilization–all real feeling for Beauty and Nature kept out, or pent up even in the cultured.

FRUST.Ye-ep. [Meditatively] Little Miggs’d be fine in “Pop goes the Weasel.”

VANE.Yes, he’d be all right, but—-

FRUST.Get him on the ‘phone, and put it into rehearsal right now.

VANE.What! But this piece–I–I—-!

FRUST.Guess we can’t take liberties with our public, Mr Vane. They want pep.

VANE.[Distressed] But it’ll break that girl’s heart. I–really–I can’t—-

FRUST.Give her the part of the ‘tweeny in “Pop goes”.

VANE.Mr Frust, I–I beg. I’ve taken a lot of trouble with this little play. It’s good. It’s that girl’s chance–and I—-

FRUST.We-ell! I certainly thought she was fine. Now, you ‘phone up Miggs, and get right along with it. I’ve only one rule, sir! Give the Public what it wants; and what the Public wants is punch and go. They’ve got no use for Beauty, Allegory, all that high-brow racket. I know ’em as I know my hand.

[During this speech MISS HELLGROVE is seen listening by the French window, in distress, unnoticed by either of them.]

VANE.Mr Frost, the Public would take this, I’m sure they would; I’m convinced of it. You underrate them.

FRUST.Now, see here, Mr Blewitt Vane, is this my theatre? I tell you, I can’t afford luxuries.

VANE.But it–it moved you, sir; I saw it. I was watching.

FRUST.[With unmoved finality] Mr Vane, I judge I’m not the average man. Before “Louisa Loses” the Public’ll want a stimulant. “Pop goes the Weasel” will suit us fine. So–get right along with it. I’ll go get some lunch.

[As he vanishes into the wings, Left, MISS HELLGROVE covers her face with her hands. A little sob escaping her attracts VANE’S attention. He takes a step towards her, but she flies.]

VANE.[Dashing his hands through his hair till it stands up] Damnation!

[FORESON walks on from the wings, Right.]

FORESON.Sir?

VANE.“Punch and go!” That superstition!

[FORESON walks straight out into the wings, Left.]

VANE.Mr Foreson!

FORESON.[Re-appearing] Sir?

VANE.This is scrapped. [With savagery] Tell ’em to set the first act of “Louisa Loses,” and put some pep into it.

[He goes out through the French windows with the wind still in his hair.]

FORESON.[In the centre of the Stage] Electrics!

ELECTRICS.Hallo!

FORESON.Where’s Charlie?

ELECTRICS.Gone to his dinner.

FORESON.Anybody on the curtain?

A VOICE.Yes, Mr Foreson.

FORESON.Put your curtain down.

[He stands in the centre of the Stage with eyes uplifted as the curtain descends.]