'The Author told the Actor, (The Actor had a fit). The Box Office man told the Programme-girl, The Theatre all was in quite a whirl. The call-boy told the Chorus. (Whatever could it be?) The super asked the Manager, What did the Censor see?' 'Charming,' murmured Lady Everard; 'brilliant--I know his father so well.' 'Whose father--the censor's?' 'Oh, the father of the composer--a very charming man. When he was young he used to come to my parties--my Wednesdays. I used to have Wednesdays then. I don't have Wednesdays now. I think it better to telephone at the last minute any particular day for my afternoons because, after all, you never know when the artists one wants are disengaged, does one? You're coming on Wednesday to hear Paul La France sing, dear Mrs Ottley?' Edith smiled and nodded assent, trying to stop the incessant trickle of Lady Everard's leaking conversation. She loved theatres, and she enjoyed hearing every word, which was impossible while there was more dialogue in the box than on the stage; also, Aylmer was sitting behind her. The comic lady now came on; there were shrieks of laughter at her unnecessary and irrelevant green boots and crinoline and Cockney accent. She proposed to marry the hero, who ran away from her. There was more chorus; and the curtain fell. In the interval Vincy arrived. He and Bruce went into the little salon behind the box. Lady Everard joined them there. Edith and Aylmer looked round the house. The audience at the Society Theatre is a special one; as at the plays in which the favourite actor-managers and _jeunes premiers_ perform there are always far more women than men, at this theatre there are always far more men than women. The stage box opposite our friends was filled with a party of about ten men. 'It looks like a jury,' said Edith. 'Perhaps it is.' 'Probably a board of directors,' said Aylmer. The first two rows of the stalls were principally occupied by middle-aged and rather elderly gentlemen. Many had grey moustaches and a military bearing. Others were inclined to be stout, with brilliant exuberant manners and very dark hair that simply wouldn't lie flat. There were a great many parties made up like those of our friends--of somebody in love with somebody, surrounded by chaperons. These were the social people, and also there were a certain number of young men with pretty women who were too fashionably dressed, too much made up, and who were looking forward too much to supper. These ladies seemed inclined to crab the play, and to find unimportant little faults with the unimportant actresses. There were many Americans--who took it seriously; and altogether one could see it was an immense success; in other words everyone had paid for their seats... * * * * *