The air was mephitic: loud with foot and voice and glass. It stunk of snarling song. Solemn smokes of cut plug swirled in a haze of lilac up to the dreary rim of gallery and the chimera of corpse faces that swam above it. At nine-ten Gina and the rest of the Casinos stood in the wings, watching the turn that preceded them on the bill—Luigi Cadenza, the world-renowned Italian tenor: salary three guineas per week for thirteen shows a week—who was handing _Santa Lucia_ and _O sole mio_ to an indifferent audience; for in vaudeville it is the early turn that gets the bird. Near them stood the manager, discussing the Lincolnshire probables with the stage manager. Much dirty and faded scenery, alleged fireproof, was piled to the flies, and on either side were iron doors and stone staircases. Everywhere were strong draughts and crusted dirt. Suddenly, from behind a sweep of canvas, leapt an antic figure, dishevelled, begrimed, inarticulate. It plucked the manager by the sleeve. “Wire’s fused, sir. Caught oner the flies. Blazing like old hell.” The manager jerked his neck at the stage manager. “Ring down!” A bell tinkled, and the shabby purple curtain dropped on the world-renowned tenor in the midst of his _Santa Luci-i-i-a_, and smothered him with confusion and with its own folds. The neck jerked again. “Ring down safety, too.” He shot a hand to the telephone, rang through to the orchestra and spoke two words. The conductor in front saw the flash of the light at his desk. He bent to the receiver. Two words snapped from it: _The King_. He replaced the receiver. His baton fell, and the symphony of _Santa Lucia_ dribbled away to rubbish. He mouthed at his leader: _The King_. He rose in his chair and tapped; and the band blared the first bar of the National Anthem when again the bell tinkled. Again he snatched the receiver: “Cut _The King_,” snapped a blasphemous voice. “Keep going on Cadenza.” Behind, things were happening. “Where’s that damn ’lectrician?” The manager appealed, exhorted and condemned. The electrician, having carried the bad news, had vanished; but the typhoon of language whirled him back again. “’Sall right, guv’nor. ’Sall right now. We got it under. You can ring up again.” But it was too late. The sudden dropping of the curtain, the incipient glide and recovery of the safety, the cessation and hurried resumption of the music, had disturbed the house. There were sounds of many moving feet, an uneasy rustle, as when a multitude of people begin to pull themselves together. Then the inevitable fool made the fool’s remark. “There’s something wrong somewhere. _Fire_, shouldn’t wonder.” That word did it. The house rose to its feet. It swayed in two vast presses to right and left. A woman screamed. Feet scraped and stamped. The chuckers-out bawled: “Order, there. Kepp yeh seats, cancher! Nothing ain’t wrong!” The conductor rose and faced the house.