In the front row of the stalls stood an ascetic-looking man in black tortoise-shell spectacles, apparently acting as umpire. Seated upon a partially dismantled throne beside a step-ladder, up stage, sat a pretty girl in a pink tam-o’-shanter, placidly perusing a crumpled brown-paper-covered manuscript. Other persons were dotted about the auditorium—fat men, cadaverous men; men with tortoise-shell spectacles, and men without; an occasional female. All were conferring in monotone. Round the bare walls of the stage, at present destitute of scenery, sat the ladies of the chorus, most of them wearing rehearsal dresses of unpretentious design—knitting socks of khaki, and occasionally exchanging a guarded confidence. Altogether the atmosphere struck Marjorie as more domestic than theatrical—almost ecclesiastical in its dullness and drowsiness. "Who are these people sitting about in the stalls?" she asked Liss. "Oh, just odds and ends! The author, and the lyric writers, and extra lyric writers, and costumiers, and photographers, and people like that—all waiting to catch Mr. Lee, and start an argument with him about something. That’s Tubby Ames on the stage. He’s having a row with Phil Kay; he has about two a week. I bet you he’s trying to get Phyllis Lane’s song cut. (That’s her, in the pink tam; she’s sweet.) It’s been going too well lately. Tubby was kept waiting for his entrance in the Second Act last night while she did her third encore dance. Trust Tubby to step on other people’s fat! Yes, I thought so." The comedian’s voice was heard again. The gist of the dispute was emerging from a cloud of verbiage. "Phil, dear old man," he exclaimed earnestly, "I should be the last person in the world to interfere with a brother or sister artist; but really, I am only saying what every one feels. After all, we must all pull together in these days, and I feel instinctively that unless the way is kept _ab-so-lute-ly_ clear for that entrance of mine, the action will drop—and flop goes your Second Act! And where are you then?" He leaned right over the footlights. The conductor, apparently a man of peace, flinched visibly. "Old boy," he began, "it’s this way. I quite see your point—" The comedian pressed his advantage swiftly. "I thought you would," he said. "I have had a good many years’ experience in this sort of work—more than you, perhaps. For instance, when I was with Charles Wyndham—" "It’s the Story of his Life!" whispered Liss despairingly. "We get it about every second rehearsal. He’s out of pantomime, really. It’s only because there’s nobody else to be had that he’s here at all. He has varicose veins, and—" But the ascetic referee in the stalls broke in upon the autobiographist. "Mr. Ames," he commanded—his voice was strong and harsh, and was obviously extensively employed in shouting down other discordant noises—"talk sense!"