“Yes, but look at Panisi,” said Geraint. “He’s supposed to be her son, and Arthur’s son as well. Surely a child of those two would be a giant?”

“Incest makes for funny-looking children,” said Dulcy. “Use your imagination, Geraint. You did the casting, you know.”

The ladies of the court were, upon the whole, a splendid group, except for Virginia Poole who, as the Lady Clarissant, looked like a woman with a grievance, as indeed she was, onstage and off. Dulcy had put some of the younger women in the cotehardie, a tight-fitting medieval bodice that showed off a fine bust to the utmost advantage.

“You’ve let your natural inclinations run away with you, haven’t you, dear?” said Geraint.

“You bet I have. Look at Polly Graves; it would be a black sin to muffle up such a splendid pair of jugs. And Esther Moss; an evocation of the mystic East? A whiff of Baghdad in Camelot?”

“They didn’t look quite that way in the designs.”

“Don’t fight your luck, Geraint. These girls are for the tired business man.”

“And woman, dear. I’m not complaining. Just surprised. You never know what’s under rehearsal clothes, do you?”

“Primrose Maybon looks good enough to eat with a silver spoon,” said Waldo.

“Too bad the women look so much better than the men,” said Gwen Larking. “But our sex does have its compensations, when we can show ‘em off.”

“Let’s see you with your trains over the arm, girls,” said Dulcy. “Left arm, Etain. That’s the girl.”

To Darcourt they all looked wonderful, even the nuisance Puckler. Dulcy had drawn heavily on Planché’s Encyclopaedia, and she had obviously studied the work of Burne-Jones, but the result was all her own. If not all the singers looked as well as they should in their costumes, the total effect was superb, because of the way in which colours called to one another, not obviously but subtly, in every grouping. This was an element in the opera of which Darcourt, the greenhorn in the theatre, could have had no idea.

When every costume had been seen in its final form, and all the notes made and all the complaints heard, Geraint called: “Before we break, I want to rehearse the curtain calls. Stand by, will you.” And when at last these tableaux had been arranged to his satisfaction—”And of course when that’s over, you, Hans, go to stage right and bring on Nilla, who takes her bow, and then, Nilla, you beckon into the wings for Schnak. And Schnak, you must come on in full fig—the fullest fig you possess—and Nilla takes your hand and you curtsy.”

“I what?”

“You curtsy. You mayn’t bow; not old enough. If you don’t know what a curtsy is, get somebody to show you. Thank you. That’s all for now. I want to see all the animal-handlers backstage right away, please.”

“But why me?” said Darcourt to an unwontedly pleading Schnak, who had sidled up to him with her request when the rehearsal was over, and the singers had gone to their dressing-rooms.

“You know what a curtsy is, don’t you?”

“I think so. But get one of the women to show you. It’s their kind of thing.”

“I don’t want to. They hate me. They’d triumph over me.”

“Nonsense, Schnak. They don’t hate you. The younger ones are probably afraid of you, because you’re so clever.”

“Please, Simon. Be a good guy, eh?”

It was the first time she had ever called him Simon, and Darcourt, whose heart was not of stone, could not say no.

“All right. Here’s a nice quiet place. So far as I can remember from my dancing-school days, it goes like this.”

They had found a dark nook backstage, near the scene-painters’ dock.

“First of all, you must stand up straight. You tend to slump, Schnak, and it won’t do if you’re going to curtsy. Then, slowly and with dignity, you sweep your right leg behind your left, and fit the knee lightly into the left leg joint. Then you descend, gently and slowly as if you were going down in an elevator, and when you get to the bottom, bend your head forward, from the neck. Keep your back straight all the time. It’s not a cringe; it’s an acknowledgement of an obligation. Now watch me.”

Rather stiffly, and with perhaps too much of the dowager in his manner, Darcourt curtsied. Schnak had a try and fell over sideways.

“It isn’t easy. And it’s very characteristic, you know. Don’t be pert, but don’t be grandiose, either. You are a great artist, acknowledging the applause of your audience. You know you are their superior in art, but they are your patrons, and they expect the high courtesy of an artist. Try again.”

Schnak tried again. This time she did not topple.

“What the hell do I do with my hands?”

“Keep them where your lap would be if you were sitting down. Some people wave the right hand to the side in a sweeping gesture, but that’s a bit stagy and too advanced for your age. You’re getting it. Try again. And again. Keep your head straight and look at the audience; only bow when you’re all the way down. Again. Come on. You’re getting it.”

Darcourt curtsied repeatedly to Schnak, and Schnak curtsied to Darcourt. They bobbed up and down, facing one another, somewhat like a pair of heraldic animals on either side of a coat of arms; Darcourt’s knees were beginning to whimper, but Schnak was learning one of the minor accomplishments of a public performer.

From above them came a sharp burst of applause, and a cry of Bravo. They looked up; suspended well above them, on the painting-bridge, were three or four stage-hands and Dulcy Ringgold, watching with undisguised delight.

Darcourt was too old and too wily to be disconcerted. He kissed his hand to the unexpected audience. But Schnak had fled to her dressing-room, hot with shame. She had much to learn.

“We hear marvellous reports about you, Simon,” said Maria as she and Arthur sat with Darcourt in the favourite restaurant. “Dulcy says it was heart-lifting to see you teaching Schnak to curtsy. She says you were très grande dame.”

“Somebody had to do it,” said Simon, “and so few women these days are up to their job as females. I think of starting a small school to teach girls the arts of enchantment. They certainly won’t learn anything from their liberated sisters.”

“We live in the age of the sweat-shirt and the jeans,” said Arthur. “Charm and manners are out. But they’ll come back. They always do. Look at the French Revolution: in a generation or two the French were all hopping around like fleas, bowing and scraping to Napoleon. People love manners, really. They admit you to one or another of a dozen secret societies.”

“Schnak must look as well as possible when she takes her bow,” said Darcourt. “Did I tell you I had a phone call from Clem Hollier? He’s going to be here tomorrow night, and he wanted to know whether he should wear dinner clothes or tails. For taking his bow, you understand.”

“Is Clem taking a bow?” said Maria. “Whatever for?”

“You may well ask. But his name appears on the program as one of the concocters of the libretto, and he seems to think that a clamorous audience will demand his appearance.”

“But did he do anything?”

“Not a damned thing. Not even as much as Penny, who simply bitched and found fault and was cross because I wouldn’t tell her where the best lines came from. But Penny is coming, in full fig, and I shouldn’t be surprised if she expects to take a bow, too.”

“Are you taking a bow, Simon?”

“I haven’t been asked, and upon the whole I think not. Nobody loves a librettist. The audience wouldn’t know who I was.”

“You can lurk in the shadows with us.”

“Oh, don’t be bitter, Arthur,” said Maria. And to Darcourt, “He’s rather touchy because we’ve been cold-shouldered so much during the last few weeks.”

“During the last year,” said Arthur. “We’ve done everything we were asked, and rather more. We’ve certainly footed all the bills, and they aren’t trivial. But if we turn up at a rehearsal and cling to the walls, Geraint looks at us as if we were intruders, and the cast glare, or smile sweetly like old Twentyman, who seems to think it’s his job to spread sweetness and light even in the humblest places.”