"Ought to be, anyhow," Joe whispered back with a cunning smile. Miss Ayesha Layard was a small lady, very richly dressed. She had a turned-up nose, wide-open blue eyes, and an expression of intense innocence. She did not look more than seventeen, and no doubt could look even younger when required. In one hand she held the script of her part, in the other a large sandwich with a bite out of it; and she was munching. "No, no!" cried Mr. Etheringham, suddenly spying the sandwich, "I will not go on while you're eating!" "But I'm so hungry, Mr. Etheringham!" she pleaded in a sweet childish voice. "It's past three and I've had no lunch." "Lunch, lunch, always lunch! No sooner do we begin to get going than it's lunch!" She stood still, munching, smiling, appealing to him with wide-open candid eyes. He flung himself crossly into a chair. "Take a quarter-of-an-hour then! After that we'll go back and run straight through the act." Miss Layard dimpled in a smile. He broke out again. "But go on while you're eating I won't!" On receiving their brief respite the men on the stage had scuttled off, like rabbits into their holes; Miss Layard too hurried off, but soon reappeared in the front of the house, carrying a paper bag with more sandwiches. She sat down in the front row of the stalls, still munching steadily. "I'll be back in a minute," said Joe, and went and sat himself down beside her. A melancholy voice came from the cavernous recesses of the pit: "We could do with a bit more life, Etheringham." "If we get the pace and the positions now, the life'll soon come. I've got some experience, I suppose, haven't I?" The author emerged into view, as he replied sadly, "Oh, experience, yes!" He did not appear disposed to allow the producer any other qualifications for his task. Mr. Etheringham gave him a fiery glare but no answer. Mr. Beverley saw Arthur and came up to him. "Hullo, Lisle, have you come to see this rot?" "Yes, but I'm afraid I can't stay. I've a train to catch, and I've got to get my hair cut first." "Oh, well, you won't miss much," said Beverley resignedly, as he dropped into the next stall. Arthur was surprised at his mode of referring to the great work; his attitude had been different that night at the Sarradets', when they celebrated the formation of the Syndicate. Perhaps the author detected his feeling, for he went on: "Oh, it's all right of its sort. It's funny, you know, all right--it'll go. Etheringham there swears by it, and he's a pretty good judge, in spite of his crankiness. But--well, I've moved on since I wrote it. Life has begun to interest me--real life, I mean, and real people, and the way things really happen. I'm writing a play now about a woman leaving her husband and children. I hope the Twentieth Society'll do it. Well, I treat it like a thing that really happens, not as you see it done on the stage or in novels." Arthur was curious. "How do you make her do it?" he asked.