[The Stage, in the crude light, as empty now save for Frust, who, in the French windows, Centre, is mumbling his cigar; and Vane, Stage Right, who is looking up into the wings, Stage Left.]

Vane. [Calling up] That lighting’s just right now, Miller.  Got it marked carefully?

Electrics.  Yes, Mr Vane.

Vane.  Good. [To Frust who as coming down] Well, sir?  So glad——­

Frust. Mr Vane, we got little Miggs on contract?

Vane.  Yes.

Frust. Well, I liked that little pocket piece fine.  But I’m blamed if I know what it’s all about.

Vane. [A little staggered] Why!  Of course it’s a little allegory.  The tragedy of civilization—­all real feeling for Beauty and Nature kept out, or pent up even in the cultured.

Frust. Ye-ep. [Meditatively] Little Miggs’d be fine in “Pop goes the Weasel.”

Vane.  Yes, he’d be all right, but——­

Frust. Get him on the ’phone, and put it into rehearsal right now.

Vane.  What!  But this piece—­I—­I——!

Frust. Guess we can’t take liberties with our public, Mr Vane.  They want pep.

Vane. [Distressed] But it’ll break that girl’s heart.  I—­really—­I can’t——­

Frust. Give her the part of the ’tweeny in “Pop goes”.

Vane.  Mr Frust, I—­I beg.  I’ve taken a lot of trouble with this little play.  It’s good.  It’s that girl’s chance—­and I——­

Frust. We-ell!  I certainly thought she was fine.  Now, you ’phone up Miggs, and get right along with it.  I’ve only one rule, sir!  Give the Public what it wants; and what the Public wants is punch and go.  They’ve got no use for Beauty, Allegory, all that high-brow racket.  I know ’em as I know my hand.

     [During this speech miss Hellgrove is seen listening by the
     French window, in distress, unnoticed by either of them.]

Vane.  Mr Frost, the Public would take this, I’m sure they would; I’m convinced of it.  You underrate them.

Frust. Now, see here, Mr Blewitt Vane, is this my theatre?  I tell you, I can’t afford luxuries.

Vane.  But it—­it moved you, sir; I saw it.  I was watching.

Frust. [With unmoved finality] Mr Vane, I judge I’m not the average man.  Before “Louisa Loses” the Public’ll want a stimulant.  “Pop goes the Weasel” will suit us fine.  So—­get right along with it.  I’ll go get some lunch.

     [As he vanishes into the wings, Left, miss Hellgrove covers her
     face with her hands.  A little sob escaping her attracts vane’s
     attention.  He takes a step towards her, but she flies.]

Vane. [Dashing his hands through his hair till it stands up] Damnation!