is "set" roughly for the Bower
scene in the second act. Mr. Terriss fetches a screen from the left, and
places it behind Miss Terry's chair; Mr. Irving sits facing Miss Terry,
backed by another screen to keep off draughts; Mr. Terriss sits a little
way back, and the dog goes to sleep in the centre of the group. In the
background appear three or four costumed specimen monks and retainers
waiting to be inspected, one frivolous being trying to balance a yard
measure on the tip of his nose in a manner which ill accords with his
monkish vestments. The "music cues" are very difficult to get right.
Nearly an hour is consumed in trying different effects. Miss Terry
insists that the whole scene entirely depends upon the action, and that
the music must be subordinated to it. When the music drowns her voice,
she suddenly stops with a despairing gesture, "We couldn't speak through
this any more than the dead. Can't it begin loudly, Mr. Ball, then die
away?" Then she turns to Miss Kate Phillips, who is her maid in the
play. "Please try your song at the back there, Miss Phillips."

[Illustration: MR. IRVING CONSIDERING THE INCIDENTAL MUSIC.]

Miss Phillips sings a very pretty but sad little song, and Miss Terry
listens attentively.

"It's an Irish wail," says Mr. Irving. "You don't want an Irish
wail here, but a merry song. You should have a mirthful, running
accompaniment," and the song is changed. "That is enough for to-day."

The dog thinks so too. The "Irish wail" has been the last straw. He
precedes everyone towards the wings with joyous barks which quite belie
his air of long-suffering cynicism. It is lunch time.

At the first full-dress rehearsal, the Lyceum stage resembles a bee-hive
with its swarms of busy occupants. Huge pieces of scenery move about,
propelled by perspiring carpenters in shirt-sleeves; whole skies
suddenly float up into "the flies"; the prompter converses amicably with
a mail-clad baron; then, more scenery glides majestically down from the
roof or springs up suddenly through the stage, which is literally full
of "traps" for the unwary. The "tum-tum-tum" of the fiddles in the
orchestra sounds weirdly as the composer of the incidental music,
Professor Stanford Villiers, leans over from the stalls and chats with
Mr. Meredith Ball, or makes a mysterious statement to him that "the
_staccato_ should be a little more _staccato_." Presently, Professor
Villiers remarks to the orchestra, "Instead of playing two s