“Then, again, the whole scheme of the play would be affected. There would be insuperable difficulties in getting my characters on and off the stage. As patients visiting a doctor their comings and goings are in perfectly natural sequence.” “You can fix that all right.” Manning dismissed such a trivial objection with a wave of the hand. “And now,” said Eliphalet pleasantly, “about the part of the wife, Pauline?” “You wouldn’t alter her? I—I thought she was rather good.” “Admitted. But as it happens we have a young lady in our present company who, although charming, is scarcely capable of realising your intentions in this part.” “But wouldn’t it be better to engage someone who was capable?” suggested Lennard. “That would be rather shirking a responsibility, when it would be easy for you to modify and simplify the emotions she would be asked to portray.” “I don’t understand.” “Look here, then,” Manning explained. “Cut out all that highly-strung, neurotic bosh and make her a simple, loving creature.” “That’s it! With a vein of sunshiny humour.” And Eliphalet leant back and smiled. “But how am I to adjust the quick, ill-considered actions of Pauline, as I’ve conceived her, to the type of character you suggest?” “That is for you to decide, Mr. Lennard. We are here simply to reproduce your thoughts—not to inspire them. All I ask is that you should retain the present spirit of the play.” The poor author looked utterly bewildered, but before he had recovered his powers of speech in came Manning with a bombshell. “And now,” he detonated, “comes the question of Comic Relief.” “Ah!” said Eliphalet. “I had quite forgotten the Comic Relief.” Theodore Lennard essayed an epigram. “I have seldom found it comic,” he said, “and never a relief.” Both his hearers frowned. “We must not consider only ourselves in these matters,” said Eliphalet gravely. “A large percentage of the audience rely for their pleasure exclusively upon this branch of the entertainment.” “But I can’t see how I’m to get it in with the people as I’ve written them, Mr. Cardomay.” “Then write some more—we have quite a large company.” “What sort?” Eliphalet fixed his eyes on the ceiling. “A good deal of harmless fun,” he said, “can be extracted from highly-characterised domestic servants of opposite sexes. Their mispronunciation of words, their little _amours_, and perhaps some good-natured horseplay among the chairs and tables.” “Are you serious, sir?” “I am seriously suggesting a vein of humour. And now, Mr. Lennard, if you will consider these minor alterations, I trust we shall come to an arrangement satisfactory to you and to myself.” Mr. Lennard rose and fumbled with his hat. “I—I’ll do what I can,” he said. Then, with unexpected courage, “But how would it be if you produced the play as it is?” “Look here, that’s hardly playing the game, o’ man,” said Manning. “You waste an hour of the Guv’nor’s time, and then put up a suggestion like that!”