The count.  She seems quite satisfied.  She tells me that the actors you sent down are perfectly suited to their parts, and very nice people to work with.  I understand she had some difficulties at the first rehearsals with the gentleman you call the producer, because he hadnt read the play; but the moment he found out what it was all about everything went smoothly.

Savoyard.  Havnt you seen the rehearsals?

The count.  Oh no.  I havnt been allowed even to meet any of the company.  All I can tell you is that the hero is a Frenchman [Savoyard is rather scandalized]:  I asked her not to have an English hero.  That is all I know. [Ruefully] I havnt been consulted even about the costumes, though there, I think, I could have been some use.

Savoyard. [puzzled] But there arnt any costumes.

The count. [seriously shocked] What!  No costumes!  Do you mean to say it is a modern play?

Savoyard.  I dont know:  I didnt read it.  I handed it to Billy Burjoyce—­the producer, you know—­and left it to him to select the company and so on.  But I should have had to order the costumes if there had been any.  There wernt.

The count. [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I understand.  She has taken the costumes into her own hands.  She is an expert in beautiful costumes.  I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what you are about to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by Watteau.  The heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a dainty Harlequin, her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet who hoodwinks the father and brings about the happiness of the lovers a grotesque but perfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or Sganarelle.

Savoyard.  I see.  That makes three men; and the clown and policeman will make five.  Thats why you wanted five men in the company.

The count.  My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly, silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of a nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime!  What was it after all but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of Grimaldi a hundred years ago?  My daughter does not know of the existence of such a thing.  I refer to the graceful and charming fantasies of the Italian and French stages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Savoyard.  Oh, I beg pardon.  I quite agree that harlequinades are rot.  Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres.  But from what Billy Burjoyce told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about here, and had seen a lot of plays.  He had no idea she’d been away in Venice all the time.