MRS. PENCE (a heavy pasty faced woman in white lawn, lowering her voice to a religious whisper as they enter). Yes, I like to come here now and then. I don’t know much about music but the organ is so soothing. We had a parlor organ when I was a little girl and I learned to play on that. MRS. STILLWATER (short, blonde, and of a romantic turn, but with three grown sons). I just think the organ is the loveliest of all instruments. It’s so rich and deep. Isn’t it dim here? So romantic! I love an old church. (They seat themselves in a pew.) I don’t suppose people want much light when they hear music. See the moonlight in that window over there, isn’t it lovely? (A pair of lovers enter.) THE BOY. I’ve heard of him. He’s a well-known organist. I love Grieg. I wish he would play the Nocturne in G Minor. THE GIRL. Oh yes, or Solveig’s Lied. Isn’t it dim here. (They enter a pew in the most remote corner. She squeezes his hand and he returns the pressure.) THE ORGANIST (a pessimistic musician of fifty, entering and climbing slowly to the organ loft. As he does so he surveys the empty auditorium gloomily.) Only four people! (He turns on the bracket lights, uncovers the keys, and adjusts the sheets of his programme before him. Surveying himself in the mirror, and then examining the opening bars of The Toccata and Fugue in D by Bach, he pulls out various stops and looks into the dim, empty auditorium once more.) What a night! And me playing in this dim, empty church. It’s bad enough to be getting along in years and have no particular following, but this church! All society and wealth away to the sea shore and the mountains and me here. Ah, well (he sighs). Worse and worse times still succeed the former. (He sounds a faint tremolo to test the air pressure. Finding all satisfactory, and noting the hour by his watch, which stands at eight-thirty, he begins the Overture to “The Magic Flute,” this being a purely secular programme). (Enter through a north window, open even with the floor of the organ loft, a horned fawn, with gay white teeth grimacing as he comes, begins_ _pirouetting. He carries a kex on which he attempts to imitate the lovely piping of the overture). THE FAWN (prancing lightly here and there). Tra aa ala-lala! Ah, tra-la-la, Ah, tra-la-la! Tra-la-leee! Tra-la-leee! Very excellent! Very nice! (He grins from ear to ear and espying the church cat, a huge yellow tom who is mousing about, gives a spirited kick in its direction). Dancing’s the thing! Life is better than death, thin shade that I am! THE CAT (arching his back and raising his fur). Pfhs-s-st! Pfhs-s-st! (The fawn pirouettes nearer, indicating a desire to dance with it, whereupon the cat retreats into a corner under the organ). THE FAWN. Ky-ey-ey! You silly dolt! (Kicks and spins away).