A prosperous First Church in the heart of a great city. Outside the city’s principle avenue, along which busses and vehicles of all descriptions are rolling. Surrounding the church a graveyard, heavily shaded with trees, the branches of which reach to the open windows bearing soft odours. Over the graves many full blown blossoms, and in the sky a full May moon. An idling sense of spring in the gait and gestures of the pedestrians. In front of the church hangs a small lighted cross, and under it swings the sign “Organ Recital, 8:30, Wilmuth Tabor, Organist.” The doors giving into the church are open. The interior, save for the presence of a caretaker in a chair, is empty. On either side of the pulpit, below a great dark rose window, burns a partially lighted electrolier. In the organ loft, over the street doors, a single light. FIRST STREET BOY (to his companion, ambling to discover what the world contains, and glancing in as they pass). Gee! Who’d wanta go to church on a night like this? SECOND STREET BOY. I should say! Didjah see the old guy with the whiskers sitten’ inside? FIRST STREET BOY. Sure. A swell job, eh? (Their attention is attracted by an automobile spinning in the opposite direction, and they pass on). AN OLD LADY (to her middle-aged daughter, on whose arm she is leaning ... sympathetically and reminiscently). The dear old First Church! What a pity its parishioners have all moved away. I don’t suppose the younger generation cares much for church going anymore. People are so irreligious these days. THE DAUGHTER. Poor Mr. Tabor. I went to one of his concerts in the winter and there were scarcely forty people there. And he plays so heavenly, too. I don’t suppose the average person cares much for organ music. (They pass with but a glance at the interior.) A BELATED SHOE CLERK (hurrying to reach Hagan’s Olio Moving Picture and Vaudeville Theatre before the curtain rises, but conscious that he ought to pay some attention to the higher phases of culture, turning to the old door-keeper). When does this concert begin? THE OLD DOOR-KEEPER (heavily). Half past eight. (He glances at the sign hanging over the youth’s head.) THE BELATED SHOE CLERK. Do they have them every Wednesday night? THE OLD DOOR-KEEPER. Every Wednesday. (The Clerk departs, and the old man scratches his head.) They often ask, but they don’t come in. (He shifts to a more comfortable position in his chair.) I see no use to playin’ to five or six people week in and week out all summer long. Still, if they want to do it they have the money. It looks like a good waste of light to me. (Mrs. Pence and Mrs. Stillwater, two neighbors of the immediate vicinity, enter the church door.)