As soon as the lights go down, and while the bald, stout gentleman is kicking our top-hat out of his way, treading heavily on our toes and wheezing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a buzz begins behind the curtain. What the players are saying is not distinguishable, but a merry girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by the short sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of the world. Then the curtain rises, and it is apparent that we are assisting at an At Home of considerable splendour. Most of the characters seem to be on the stage, and for once we do not ask how they got there. We presume they have all been invited. Thus you have had no difficulty with your entrances.
As the chatter dies down a chord is struck on the piano.
The Bishop of Sploshington. Charming. Quite one of my favourites. Do play it again. (Relapses into silence for the rest of the evening.)
The Duchess of Southbridge (to Lord Reggie). Oh, Reggie, what did you say?
Lord Reggie (putting up his eyeglass). Said I'd bally well—top-hole—what?—don'cherknow.
Lady Evangeline (to Lady Violet, as they walk across the stage). Oh, I must tell you what that funny Mr. Danby said. (Doesn't. Lady Violet, none the less, trills with happy laughter.)
Prince von Ichdien, the well-known Ambassador (loudly, to an unnamed gentleman). What your country ought to do—(He finishes his remarks in the lip-language, which the unnamed gentleman seems to understand. At any rate he nods several times.)
There is more girlish laughter, more buzz and more deaf-and-dumb language. Then
Lord Tuppeny. Well, what about auction?
Amid murmurs of "You'll play, Field-Marshal?" and "Auction, Archbishop?" the crowd drifts off, leaving the hero and heroine alone in the middle of the stage.