" The voices
resounded queerly in the empty theatre.
The stage was invaded by scene-shifters before the curtain could
descend again.
Edward Henry heard a tripping step behind him. It was the faithful
typewriting girl.
"I say," he said. "Do you mind telling me what's going on here? It's
true that in the rush of more important business I'd almost forgotten
that a theatre is a place where they perform plays."
"It's the dress-rehearsal, Mr. Machin," said the woman, startled and
apologetic.
"But the dress-rehearsal was fixed for three o'clock," said he. "It
must have been finished three hours ago."
"I think they've only just done the first act," the woman breathed. "I
know they didn't begin till seven. Oh! Mr. Machin, of course it's
no affair of mine, but I've worked in a good many theatres, and I do
think it's such a mistake to have the dress-rehearsal quite private.
If you get a hundred or so people in the stalls then it's an audience,
and there's much less delay and everything goes much better. But when
it's private a dress-rehearsal is just like any other rehearsal."
"Only more so--perhaps," said Edward Henry, smiling.
He saw that he had made her happy; but he saw also that he had given
her empire over him.
"I've got your tea here," she said, rather like a hospital-nurse now.
"Won't you drink it?"
"I'll drink it if it's not stewed," he muttered.
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