The Sup.  Y.L. (languidly, for the benefit of the bystanders).  Do they make you wait like this for the Pit?

Her Admirer. Do they make you wait! Why, weren’t you and I three-quarters of an hour getting into the Adelphi the other evening?

The Sup.  Y.L. (annoyed with him).  I don’t see any necessity to bawl it out like that if we were.

[The discreetly curtained windows are thrown back, revealing persons inside reluctantly tearing themselves away from their telephones.  As the door opens, there is a frantic rush to get places.

An Attendant (soothingly).  Don’t crush, Ladies and Gentlemen—­plenty of room for all.  Take your time!

[The crowd stream in, and pounce eagerly on chairs and telephones; the usual Fussy Family waste precious minutes in trying to get seats together, and get separated in the end.  Undecided persons flit from one side to another.  Gradually they all settle down, and stop their ears with the telephone-tubes, the prevailing expression being one of anxiety, combined with conscious and apologetic imbecility.  Nervous people catch the eye of complete strangers across the table, and are seized with suppressed giggles.  An Irritable Person finds himself between the Comic Man and a Chatty Old Gentleman.

The Comic Man_ (to his Fiancee, putting the tube to his ear).  Can’t get my telephone to tork yet! (Shakes it.) I’ll wake ’em up! (Puts the other tube to his mouth.) Hallo—­hallo! are you there?  Look alive with that Show o’ yours, Guv’nor—­we ain’t got long to stop! (Pretends to listen, and reply.) If you give me any of your cheek, I’ll come down and punch your ’ead! (Applies a tube to his eye.) All right, POLLY, they’ve begun—­I can see the ’ero’s legs!

Polly.  Be quiet, can’t you?  I can’t hold the tubes steady if you will keep making me laugh so. (Listening.) Oh, ALF, I can hear singing—­can’t you?  Isn’t it lovely!

The Com.  M. It seems to me there’s a bluebottle, or something, got inside mine—­I can ’ear im!

The Irr.  P. (angrily, to himself).  How the deuce do they expect—­and that infernal organ in the nave has just started booming again—­they ought to send out and stop it!

The Chatty O.G. (touching his elbow).  I beg your pardon, Sir, but can you inform me what opera it is they’re performing at Manchester?  The Prima Donna seems to be just finishing a song.  Wonderful how one can hear it all!

The Irr.  P. (snapping).  Very wonderful indeed, under the circumstances! (He corks both ears with the tubes).  It’s too bad—­now there’s a confounded string-band beginning outs—­(Removes the tube.) Eh, what? (More angrily than ever.) Why, it’s in the blanked thing! (He fumbles with the tubes in trying to readjust them.  At last he succeeds, and, after listening intently, is rewarded by hearing a muffled and ghostly voice, apparently from the bowels of the earth, say—­“Ha, say you so?  Then am I indeed the hooshiest hearsher in the whole of Mumble-land!”)