inch something more precious? Has
this high-brow curtain-raiser of yours got any "pep" in it?

VANE. It has charm.

FRUST. I'd thought of "Pop goes the Weasel" with little Miggs. We
kind of want a cock-tail before "Louisa loses," Mr Vane.

VANE. Well, sir, you'll see.

FRUST. This your lighting? It's a bit on the spiritool side. I've
left my glass. Guess I'll sit in the front row. Ha'f a minute. Who
plays this Orphoos?

VANE. George Fleetway.

FRUST. Has he got punch?

VANE. It's a very small part.

FRUST. Who are the others?

VANE. Guy Toone plays the Professor; Vanessa Hellgrove his wife;
Maude Hopkins the faun.

FRUST. H'm! Names don't draw.

VANE. They're not expensive, any of them. Miss Hellgrove's a find,
I think.

FRUST. Pretty?

VANE. Quite.

FRUST. Arty?

VANE. [Doubtfully] No. [With resolution] Look here, Mr FRUST,
it's no use your expecting another "Pop goes the Weasel."

FRUST. We-ell, if it's got punch and go, that'll be enough for me.
Let's get to it!

[He extinguishes his cigar and descends the steps and sits in
the centre of the front row of the stalls.]

VANE. Mr Foreson?

FORESON. [Appearing through curtain, Right] Sir?

VANE. Beginners. Take your curtain down.

[He descends the steps and seats himself next to FRUST. The
curtain goes down.]

[A woman's voice is heard singing very beautifully Sullivan's
song: "Orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees and the
mountain tops that freeze'." etc.]

FRUST. Some voice!

The curtain rises. In the armchair the PROFESSOR is yawning,
tall, thin, abstracted, and slightly grizzled in the hair. He
has a pad of paper over his knee, ink on the stool to his right
and the Encyclopedia volume on the stand to his left-barricaded
in fact by the article he is writing. He is reading a page over
to himself, but the words are drowned in the sound of the song
his WIFE is singing in the next room, partly screened off by the
curtain. She finishes, and stops. His voice can then be heard
conning the words of his article.

PROF. "Orpheus symbolized the voice of Beauty, the call of life,
luring us mortals with his song back from the graves we dig for
ourselves. Probably the ancients realized this neither more nor less
than we moderns. Mankind has not changed. The civilized being still
hides the faun and the dryad within