or porch with pillars supporting its roof.) In the wall, Stage Left, is a curtained opening, across which the curtain is half drawn.  Stage Right of the French windows is a large armchair turned rather towards the window, with a book rest attached, on which is a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica, while on a stool alongside are writing materials such as a man requires when he writes with a pad on his knees.  On a little table close by is a reading-lamp with a dark green shade.  A crude light from the floats makes the stage stare; the only person on it is Mr Foreson, the stage manager, who is standing in the centre looking upwards as if waiting for someone to speak.  He is a short, broad man, rather blank, and fatal.  From the back of the auditorium, or from an empty box, whichever is most convenient, the producer, Mr Blewitt Vane, a man of about thirty four, with his hair brushed back, speaks.

Vane.  Mr Foreson?

Foreson.  Sir?

Vane.  We’ll do that lighting again.

     [Foreson walks straight of the Stage into the wings Right.]

     [A pause.]

Mr Foreson! [Crescendo] Mr Foreson.

     [Foreson walks on again from Right and shades his eyes.]

Vane.  For goodness sake, stand by!  We’ll do that lighting again.  Check your floats.

Foreson. [Speaking up into the prompt wings] Electrics!

Voice of electrics.  Hallo!

Foreson.  Give it us again.  Check your floats.

     [The floats go down, and there is a sudden blinding glare of
     blue lights, in which Foreson looks particularly ghastly.]

Vane.  Great Scott!  What the blazes!  Mr Foreson!

     [Foreson walks straight out into the wings Left.  Crescendo.]

Mr Foreson!

Foreson. [Re-appearing] Sir?

Vane.  Tell Miller to come down.

Foreson.  Electrics!  Mr Blewitt Vane wants to speak to you.  Come down!

Vane.  Tell Herbert to sit in that chair.

     [Foreson walks straight out into the Right wings.]

Mr Foreson!

Foreson. [Re-appearing] Sir?

Vane.  Don’t go off the stage. [Foreson mutters.]

     [Electrics appears from the wings, Stage Left.  He is a dark,
     thin-faced man with rather spikey hair.]

Electrics.  Yes, Mr Vane?

Vane.  Look!

Electrics.  That’s what I’d got marked, Mr Vane.

Vane.  Once for all, what I want is the orchard in full moonlight, and the room dark except for the reading lamp.  Cut off your front battens.

     [Electrics withdraws Left.  Foreson walks off the Stage into the
     Right wings.]