CURTAIN.
"WILLIAM SMITH, EDITOR"
The scene is the Editor's room in the office of The Lark. Two walls of the room are completely hidden from floor to ceiling by magnificently-bound books: the third wall at the back is hidden by boxes of immensely expensive cigars. The windows, of course, are in the fourth wall, which, however, need not be described, as it is never quite practicable on the stage. The floor of this apartment is chastely covered with rugs shot by the Editor in his travels, or in the Tottenham Court Road; or, in some cases, presented by admiring readers from abroad. The furniture is both elegant and commodious.
William Smith, Editor, comes in. He is superbly dressed in a fur coat and an expensive cigar. There is a blue pencil behind his ear, and a sheaf of what we call in the profession "typewritten manuscripts" under his arm. He sits down at his desk and pulls the telephone towards him.
Smith (at the telephone). Hallo, is that you, Jones? … Yes, it's me. Just come up a moment. (Puts down telephone and begins to open his letters.)
Enter Jones, his favourite sub-editor. He is dressed quite commonly, and is covered with ink. He salutes respectfully as he comes into the room.
Jones. Good-afternoon, chief.
Smith. Good-afternoon. Have a cigar?
Jones. Thank you, chief.
Smith. Have you anything to tell me?