“Thank you, Ben, not now,” Jacko whispered. “The curtain comes down in five minutes.”

“Followed by a delicious post mortem conducted by the Great Producer and the Talented Author. Entrancing prospect! How did I go, Jacko?”

“No actor,” Jacko returned, “cares to be told how he goes in anything but terms of extravagant praise. You know how clever you always are. You are quite as clever to-night as you have always been. Moreover, you showed some discretion.”

Martyn heard Bennington chuckle. “There’s still tomorrow,” he said. “I reserve my fire, old boy. I bide my time.”

There was a pause. Martyn heard one of them fetch a long sigh — Jacko, evidently, because Bennington, as if in answer to it, said: “Oh, nonsense.” After a moment he added: “The kid’s all right,” and when Jacko didn’t answer: “Don’t you think so?”

“Why, yes,” said Jacko.

On the stage the voices of Helena Hamilton and Adam Poole built towards a climax. The call-boy came round behind the set and went down the passage chanting: “All on for the curtain, please. All on.”

Martyn shifted the chair in the dressing-room and moved noisily. There was a brief silence.

“I don’t give a damn if she can hear,” Bennington said more loudly. “Wait a moment. Stay where you are. I was asking you what you thought of Gay’s performance. She’s all right. Isn’t she?”

“Yes, yes. I must go.”

“Wait a bit. If the fools left her alone she’d go tremendously. I tell you what, old boy. If our Eccentric Author exercises his talent for wisecracking on that kid to-night I’ll damn well take a hand.”

“You will precipitate a further scene, and that is to be avoided.”

“I’m not going to stand by and hear her bullied. By God, I’m not. I understand you’ve given harbourage, by the way, to the Mystery Maiden.”

“I must get round to the side. By your leave, Ben.”

“Plenty of time.”

And Martyn knew that Bennington stood in the entry to the passage, barring the way.

“I’m talking,” he said, “about this understudy-cum-dresser. Miss X.”

“You are prolific in cryptic titles.”

“Call her what you like, it’s a peculiar business. What is she? You may as well tell me, you know. Some ancient indiscretion of Adam’s adolescence come home to roost?”

“Be quiet, Ben.”

“For tuppence I’d ask Adam himself. And that’s not the only question I’d like to ask him. Do you think I relish my position?”

“They are getting near the tag. It is almost over.”

“Why do you suppose I drink a bit? What would you do in my place?”

“Think before I speak,” said Jacko, “for one thing.”

A buzzer sounded. “There’s the curtain,” said Jacko. “Look out.”

Martyn heard a kind of scuffle followed by an oath from Bennington. There were steps in the passage. The curtain fell with a giant whisper. A gust of air swept through the region back-stage.

“All on,” said the stage-manager distantly. Martyn heard the players go on and the curtain rise and fall again.

Poole, on the stage, said: “And that’s all of that. All right, everyone. Settle down and I’ll take the notes. John will be round in a moment. I’ll wait for you, Helena.”

Miss Hamilton came into the improvised room. Martyn removed her dress and put her into her gown.

“I’ll take my make-up off out there,” she said. “Bring the things, Martyn, will you? Grease, towels and my cigarettes?”

Martyn had them ready. She followed Miss Hamilton out and for the first time that night went onto the set.

Poole, wearing a dark dressing-gown, stood with his back to the curtain. The other five members of the cast sat, relaxed but attentive, about the stage. Jacko and Clem Smith waited by the Prompt corner with papers and pencils. Martyn held a looking-glass before Miss Hamilton, who said: “Adam, darling, you don’t mind, do you? I mustn’t miss a word but I do rather want to get on,” and began to remove her make-up.

Upon this scene Dr. John James Rutherford erupted. His arrival was prefaced in his usual manner by slammed doors, blundering footsteps and loud ejaculations. He then appeared in the central entrance, flame-headed, unshaven, overcoated, and grasping a sheaf of papers.

“Roast me,” he said, “in sulphur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! ’Ere I again endure the loathy torment of a dress rehearsal! What have I done, ye gods, that I should—”

“All right, John,” Poole said. “Not yet. Sit down. On some heavy piece of furniture and carefully.”

Clem Smith shouted: “Alf! The Doctor’s chair.”

A large chair with broken springs was brought on and placed with its back to the curtain. Dr. Rutherford hurled himself into it and produced his snuff-box. “I am a child to chiding,” he said. “What goes on, chums?”

Poole said: “I’m going to take my stuff. If anything I have to say repeats exactly any of your own notes you might leave it out for the sake of saving time. If you’ve any objections, be a good chap and save them till I’ve finished. Agreed?”

“Can’t we cut the flummery and get down to business?”

“That’s just what I’m suggesting.”

“Is it? I wasn’t listening. Press on, then, my dear fellow. Press on.”

They settled down. Jacko gave Poole a block of notes and he began to work through them. “Nothing much in Act I,” he said, “until we get to—” His voice went on evenly. He spoke of details in timing, of orchestration and occasionally of stage-management. Sometimes a player would ask a question and there would be a brief discussion. Sometimes Clem Smith would make a note. For the scenes where Poole had been on, Jacko, it appeared, had taken separate notes. Martyn suddenly remembered that Jacko’s official status was that of assistant to Poole, and thought it characteristic of him that he made so little of his authority.

From where she stood, holding the glass for Helena Hamilton, she could see all the players. In the foreground was the alert and beautiful face of her employer, a little older now with its make-up gone, turning at times to the looking-glass and at times, when something in his notes concerned her, towards Poole. Beyond Miss Hamilton sat J. G. Darcey, alone and thoughtfully filling his pipe. He glanced occasionally, with an air of anxious solicitude, at Miss Gainsford. At the far side Parry Percival lay in an armchair looking fretful. Bennington stood near the centre with a towel in his hands. At one moment he came behind his wife. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he reached over it, helped himself to a dollop of grease from a jar in her case and slapped it on his face. She made a slight movement of distaste and immediately afterwards a little secret grimace, as if she had caught herself out in a blunder. For a moment he retained his hold of her shoulder. Then he looked down at her, dragged his clean fingers across her neck and, smearing.the grease over his face, returned to his former position and began to clean away his make-up.

Martyn didn’t want to look at Gay Gainsford but was unable altogether to avoid doing so. Miss Gainsford sat, at first alone, on a smallish sofa. She seemed to have herself tolerably well in hand, but her eyes were restless and her fingers plaited and replaited the folds of her dress. Bennington watched her from a distance until he had done with his towel. Then he crossed the stage and sat beside her, taking one of the restless hands in his.

He looked hard at Martyn, who was visited painfully by a feeling of great compassion for both of them and by a sensation of remorse. She had a notion, which she tried to dismiss as fantastic, that Poole sensed this reaction. His glance rested for a moment on her and she thought: “This is getting too complicated. It’s going to be too much for me.” She made an involuntary movement and at once Miss Hamilton put out a hand to the glass.

When Poole had dealt with the first act he turned to Dr. Rutherford, who had sat throughout with his legs extended and his chin on his chest, directing from under his brows a glare of extreme malevolence at the entire cast.