Bearing in mind that the guests come as late as they dare, without being absolutely uncivil, that dinners are served as rapidly as is physically possible, and that the circle breaks up as soon as the meal ends, one asks one’s self in wonder why, if a dinner party is such a bore that it has to be scrambled through, _coûte que coûte_, we continue to dine out? It is within the bounds of possibility that people may have reasons for hurrying through their days, and that dining out _à la longue_ becomes a weariness. The one place, however, where you might expect to find people reposeful and calm is at the theatre. The labor of the day is then over; they have assembled for an hour or two of relaxation and amusement. Yet it is at the play that our restlessness is most apparent. Watch an audience (which, be it remarked in passing, has arrived late) during the last ten minutes of a performance. No sooner do they discover that the end is drawing near than people begin to struggle into their wraps. By the time the players have lined up before the footlights the house is full of disappearing backs. Past, indeed, are the unruffled days when a heroine was expected (after the action of a play had ended) to deliver the closing _envoi_ dear to the writers of Queen Anne’s day. Thackeray writes:— _The play is done_! _The curtain drops_, _Slow falling to the prompter’s bell_! _A moment yet the actor stops_, _And looks around_, _to say farewell_! A comedian who attempted any such abuse of the situation to-day would find himself addressing empty benches. Before he had finished the first line of his epilogue, most of his public would be housed in the rapid transit cars. No talent, no novelty holds our audiences to the end of a performance. On the opening night of the opera season this winter, one third of the “boxes” and orchestra stalls were vacant before Romeo (who, being a foreigner, was taking his time) had expired. One overworked matron of my acquaintance has perfected an ingenious and time-saving combination. By signalling from a window near her opera box to a footman below, she is able to get her carriage at least two minutes sooner than her neighbors. During the last act of an opera like _Tann-häuser_ or _Faust_, in which the inconsiderate composer has placed a musical gem at the end, this lady is worth watching. After getting into her wraps and overshoes she stands, hand on the door, at the back of her box, listening to the singers; at a certain moment she hurries to the window, makes her signal, scurries back, hears Calvé pour her soul out in _Anges purs_, _anges radieux_, yet manages to get down the stairs and into her carriage before the curtain has fallen.