The scene is laid in the library of the Perkins mansion, on the afternoon of the day upon which an amateur dramatic performance is to be held therein.  The Perkins house has been given over to the dramatic association having the matter in charge.  At right of library a scenic doorway is hung.  At left a drop-curtain is arranged, behind which is the middle hall of the Perkins dwelling, where the expected audience are to sit.  The unoccupied wall spaces are hung with paper-muslin.  The apartment is fitted up generally to resemble an English drawing-room; table and chair at centre.  At rear stands a painted-canvas conservatory entrance, on left of which is a long oaken chest.  The curtain rising discovers Mrs. Perkins giving a few finishing touches to the scene, with Mr. Perkins gazing curiously about the room.

Perkins.  Well, they’ve transformed this library into a scene of bewitching beauty—­haven’t they?  These paper-muslin walls are a dream of loveliness.  I suppose, as the possessor of all this, I ought to be supremely happy—­only I wish that canvas conservatory door hadn’t been tacked over my reference-books.  I want to look up some points about—­

Mrs. Perkins.  Oh, never mind your books, Thaddeus; it’s only for one night.  Can’t you take a minute’s rest?

Perkins.  One night?  I like that.  It’s been there two already, and it’s in for to-night, and all day to-morrow, I suppose.  It’ll take all day to-morrow to clean up, I’ll wager a hat.  I’m beginning to rue the hour I ever allowed the house of Perkins to be lured into the drama.

Mrs. Perkins.  You’re better off than I am.  I’ve got to take part, and I don’t half know my lines.

Perkins.  I?  I better off?  I’d like to know if I haven’t got to sit out in front and watch you people fulfil your diabolical mission in your doubly diabolical way, and grin at the fearful jokes in the dialogue I’ve been listening to for weeks, and make the audience feel that they are welcome when they’re not.  What’s been done with my desk?

Mrs. Perkins.  It’s down in the laundry.  You’re about as—­

Perkins.  Oh, is it?  Laundry is a nice place for a desk.  Plenty of starch handy to stiffen up a writer’s nerve, and scrubbing-boards galore to polish up his wits.  And I suppose my papers are up in the attic?

Mrs. Perkins.  No; they’re stowed away safely in the nursery.  Now please don’t complain!

Perkins.  Me?  Complain?  I never complain.  I didn’t say a word when Yardsley had my Cruikshanks torn from their shelves and chucked into a clothes-basket and carried into the butler’s pantry, did I?  Did I say as much as one little word?  I wanted to say one little word, I admit, but I didn’t.  Did I?  If I did, I withdraw it.  I’m fond of this sort of thing.  The greatest joy in life is to be found in arranging and rearranging a library, and I seem to be in for joy enough to kill.  What time are the—­these amateur Thespians coming?