[He moves from the auditorium and ascends on to the Stage, by
     some steps Stage Right.]

Foreson.  Herb!  Call the boss, and tell beginners to stand by.  Sharp, now!

     [Herbert gets out of the chair, and goes off Right.]

     [Foreson is going off Left as Vane mounts the Stage.]

Vane.  Mr Foreson.

Foreson. [Re-appearing] Sir?

Vane.  I want “Props.”

Foreson. [In a stentorian voice] “Props!”

     [Another moth-eaten man appears through the French windows.]

Vane.  Is that boulder firm?

Props. [Going to where, in front of the back-cloth, and apparently among its apple trees, lies the counterfeitment of a mossy boulder; he puts his foot on it] If, you don’t put too much weight on it, sir.

Vane.  It won’t creak?

Props.  Nao. [He mounts on it, and a dolorous creaking arises.]

Vane.  Make that right.  Let me see that lute.

[Props produces a property lute.  While they scrutinize it, a broad man with broad leathery clean-shaven face and small mouth, occupied by the butt end of a cigar, has come on to the stage from Stage Left, and stands waiting to be noticed.]

Props. [Attracted by the scent of the cigar] The Boss, Sir.

Vane. [Turning to “Props”] That’ll do, then.

     ["Props” goes out through the French windows.]

Vane. [To Frust] Now, sir, we’re all ready for rehearsal of
“Orpheus with his Lute.”

Frust. [In a cosmopolitan voice] “Orphoos with his loot!” That his loot, Mr Vane?  Why didn’t he pinch something more precious?  Has this high-brow curtain-raiser of yours got any “pep” in it?

Vane.  It has charm.

Frust. I’d thought of “Pop goes the Weasel” with little Miggs.  We kind of want a cock-tail before “Louisa loses,” Mr Vane.

Vane.  Well, sir, you’ll see.

Frust. This your lighting?  It’s a bit on the spiritool side.  I’ve left my glass.  Guess I’ll sit in the front row.  Ha’f a minute.  Who plays this Orphoos?

Vane.  George Fleetway.

Frust. Has he got punch?

Vane.  It’s a very small part.

Frust. Who are the others?

Vane.  Guy Toone plays the Professor; Vanessa Hellgrove his wife;
Maude Hopkins the faun.

Frust. H’m!  Names don’t draw.

Vane.  They’re not expensive, any of them.  Miss Hellgrove’s a find,
I think.

Frust. Pretty?

Vane.  Quite.

Frust. Arty?

Vane. [Doubtfully] No. [With resolution] Look here, Mr Frust, it’s no use your expecting another “Pop goes the Weasel.”