Author. Of course the acting is abominable—­but they might make allowances for that.  It is so unfair! [The Play proceeds.  The Heroine’s jealousy has been excited by the Villain, for vague purposes of his own, and the Hero is trying to disarm her suspicions. She. “But why are you constantly going from Paris to London at the beck and call of that man?” He (aside).  “If she only knew that I do it to shield my second cousin, JASPER—­but my oath!—­I cannot tell her! (To her.) The reason is very simple, darling—­he is my Private Secretary!” (Roars of inextinguishable laughter, drowning the Wife’s expressions of perfect satisfaction and confidence.  The Hero wants to go out; the Wife begs him to stay; she has ’a presentiment of evil—­a dread of something unseen, unknown.’  He goes:  the Villain enters in evening dress.) Villain. “Your husband is false to you.  Meet me in half an hour at the lonely hut by the cross-roads, and you shall have proof of his guilt.” (The Wife departs at once, just as she is.  Villain, soliloquising.) “So—­my diabolical schemes prosper.  I have got JOSEPH out of the way by stratagem, decoyed his wife—­my early love—­to a lonely hut, where my minions wait to seize her.  Now to abduct the child, destroy the certificate of vaccination which alone stands between me and a Peerage, set fire to the home of my ancestors, accuse JOSEPH of all my crimes, and take my seat in the House of Lords as the Earl of Addelegg!  Ha-ha—­a good night’s work! a good—­” Joseph (from back).  “Not so.  I have heard all.  I will not have it.  You shall not!” (_&c., &c._) Villain. “You would thwart my schemes?” Joseph (firmly).  “I would.  My wife and child shall not—­” (_&c., &c._) Villain (slowly).  “And the oath you swore to my Mother, your dying Aunt, would you break that?” Joseph (overcome).  “My oath! my Aunt!  Ah, no, I cannot, I must not break it.  JASPER SHOPPUN, I am powerless—­you must do your evil will!” (He sinks on a settee:  Triumph of Villain, tableau, and Curtain.)

Author. I wouldn’t have believed that a modern audience would treat heroic conduct like that as if it was laughable.  It’s enough to make one give up play-writing altogether!

Comp. Oh, I wouldn’t do that, dear.  You mustn’t punish Posterity! [The Play goes on and on; the Villain removes inconveniently repentant tools, and saddles the Hero with his nefarious deeds.  The Hero is arrested, but reappears, at liberty, in the next Act (about the Ninth), and no reference whatever is made to the past.  Old serious characters turn up again, and are welcomed with uproarious delight.  At the end of a conversation, lasting a quarter of an hour, the Lady’s-maid remarks that “her Mistress has been very ill, and must not talk too much.”  Cheers from Audience.  General joy when the Villain returns a hopeless maniac.  Curtain about six, and loud calls for Author.)