“This,” said Ethelbert, joining him in front of the Sultan’s palace, raising himself on tiptoe and doing a little pirouette, “is the revolving stage. We have got three scenes on it, and it goes right round when they pull those levers over there: Saves an awful lot of mucking about.”

“It’s really fascinating,” said Adrian.

“Well, come along, darling boy,” said Ethelbert, and he fluttered once more into the wings and switched off the lights, plunging the Sultan’s palace into dusty gloom. He dived away through the scenery piled in corners and Adrian followed him.

Presently they came to a long narrow corridor, on either side of which was a series of doors.

“This,” said Ethelbert flitting down the corridor to a door and leaning against it decoratively, “this is my dressing-room, dear boy.”

He pointed to the door on which was a card that stated, rather startlingly, ETHELBERT CLEEP—CHIEP WIFE TO SULTAN. He opened the door and led Adrian into a tiny, rather dingy little room, most of one wall being taken up by a large mirror lit by gas lamps. There was a cupboard in one corner, the door hanging half open, and in it Adrian could see various exotic and eastern-looking costumes and a number of diaphanous veils.

Reclining on a horse-hair sofa on the other side of the room was an extremely large and statuesque red-head, clad (it was quite obvious) in nothing but a rather moth-eaten dressing-gown trimmed with ostrich feathers. She lay in the attitude of one who has been carved from stone and placed on top of a medieval tomb, but instead of her hands clasping to her bosom some item of ecclesiastical interest, she was holding a half-full bottle of gin. Her snores were loud and rhythmic, though lady-like in their way.

“Oh, dear,” said Ethelbert, “she’s at it again.”

He flapped across the room and removed the bottle of gin from its owner’s firm clasp and then started patting her cheeks daintily.

“Honoria, my dear, Honoria,” said Ethelbert, “do wake up.”

The lady, thus appealed to, stirred and muttered something derogatory under her breath.

“This is Honoria,” said Ethelbert glancing over his shoulder at Adrian. “Honoria Loosestrife. She’s our principal boy.”

“Principal boy?” said Adrian.

“Yes,” said Ethelbert, “she’s awfully good” Adrian sat down on a chair and studied Ethelbert carefully.

“Just let me get things straight. You are playing the Sultan’s favourite wife, and she,” He said pointing at Honoria, who was now displaying a vast expanse of pearly bosom, “she’s playing the principal boy?”

“But, of course,” said Ethelbert. “Silly boy, it’s always like that in pantomimes.”

“Oh,” said Adrian. “Well, it sounds very queer to me?”

“You’ll soon get used to it,” said Ethelbert. ‘It’s merely a question of adjusting.”

He went over to a jug and basin in the corner, wet a large flannel and proceeded to apply it to Honoria.

“Gerorf. Leavemealone,” she said indistinctly.

“Now, now, dear,” said Ethelbert. “You must be ready for rehearsals. You know what old cretinous Clattercup is like.”

He squeezed about a pint of water out of the flannel all over Honoria’s face and turned to Adrian.

“Such a nice girl,” he said, “but she has, how shall I put it, a slight penchant for stimulants.”

“Yes,” said Adrian, “I can see that. Rosy has too.” Honoria dragged herself upright on the couch and sat looking at them blearily. Her dressing-gown had now become disarranged to a considerable degree. Adrian hastily averted his gaze.

“There we are then,” said Ethelbert. “Feeling better?”

“No,” said Honoria in a deep mournful contralto that was somehow reminiscent of the lower notes of Ethelbert’s tuba, “I feel dreadful . . . dreadful.”

“Well,” said Ethelbert philosophically, “gin on an empty stomach is not the best way to start the day.”

“Nobody cares about me,” said Honoria lugubriously, and to Adrian’s intense embarrassment and alarm large tears welled out of her eyes, trickled down her cheeks and fell on her ample bosom.

“Of course they do, my love,” said Ethelbert. “Everybody simply adores you.”

“They don’t,” sobbed Honoria. “They’re jealous of me and my art.”

Ethelbert sighed and raised his eyes to heaven.

“Adrian,” he said, “would you be a dear and go along to the stage door and get a cup of tea for Honoria? It will make her feel better.”

“Nothing,” said Honoria sonorously, clasping her forehead and one breast in a dramatic gesture, “nothing, but death will make me feel any better.”

Her gesture had succeeded in disarranging her dressing-gown still further, so Adrian fled before any more of Honoria’s voluptuous figure was vouchsafed to him. He eventually found a little be whiskered gnome of a man sitting in what looked like a glass-fronted pay box full of keys, and managed, after some argument, to extricate a large mug of tea which he carried back to the dressing-room.

To his astonishment, there was no longer an air of drunken gloom. Honoria was rolling about on the couch, giving vent to great, rich gurgles of laughter at what appeared to be some joke that Ethelbert had been telling her.

“Oh, my soul,” she said sitting up and wiping her eyes, “Reely Ethelbert, you are terrible.”

“Never a dull moment,” said Ethelbert, thrusting the mug of tea into her hand.

She sipped the tea and eyed Adrian appraisingly, then she wrapped her dressing-gown closer about her and drew herself up majestically.

“Who is this?” she enquired.

“Adrian,” said Ethelbert. “He has joined the show with his elephant.”

“Tarrach!” said Honoria, with such ferocity that Adrian jumped. “That’s all we need, an elephant in this show. Already half my best lines are killed by that ridiculous clashing of cymbals that Clattercup insists on. That orchestra deliberately plays off key to put me out in all my best solo numbers, and now we are to have an elephant stumping about the stage and no doubt Leaving huge mounds of excrement wherever it goes.”

“No, no,” Ethelbert assured her earnestly. “It’s a very clean elephant.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Adrian, who was beginning vaguely to grasp the method of handling Honoria’s rather volatile nature, “as a matter of fact, Mr. Clattercup when he employed me said that he had got such a wonderful principal boy that nothing but the best in the way of um . . . er . . .”

“Props,” prompted Ethelbert.

“Props, that’s it,” said Adrian, “nothing but the best of props was good enough—to give her the right background.”

Honoria’s eyes opened wide.

“Honest? Did he say that?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Adrian, blushing slightly.

“Success,” sighed Honoria. “Success at last. Dear boy, of course you may use your elephant.” She bowed graciously to Adrian.

“Thank you,” said Adrian.

“And I promise to give it every consideration on the stage,” said Honoria.

“Thank you very much,” said Adrian, wondering how it would be possible for even somebody as magnificently endowed with temperament as Honoria to cramp Rosy’s style.

“Well, come on,” said Ethelbert. “We’d better go and see old Clattercup and find out what he wants you and Rosy to do.”

The rest of the afternoon was, to say the least of it, exhausting. Mr. Clattercup, as a producer, seemed to have only the haziest notion of what could and what could not be done on a stage, and the more he ranted and raved and tore his hair, the more confused things became. Fights broke out among the Sultan’s harem when it was discovered that Clattercup wanted half of them to stand behind a piece of eastern lattice-work, completely obscured from the audience. People exiting right would bump into people entering right, and, towards the end of the afternoon, everything became so confused that sometimes the principal girl (a fragile, fluffy-haired little creature who, although apparently no relative, was on fairly intimate terms with Mr. Clattercup) got positively hysterical and started singing the principal boy’s songs by mistake. This produced a magnificent display of apoplexy on the part of Honoria and the stage was in such confusion that Clattercup had to allow everybody to return to their dressing-rooms for ten minutes to regain their composure.