The performers spent a hectic day making arrangements. The time allowed in their dormitory was necessarily limited, so preparations were a scramble. The four beds were moved and placed as seats, and one corner of the room was reserved as the stage. Carmel's dressing-room made an excellent "green room," and gave the Blue Grotto a substantial theatrical lift over other dormitories.
Ten minutes before the hour, five distracted actresses were struggling to complete their impromptu toilets.
"I'm so rocky, I know I shan't be able to say anything at all!" fluttered Dulcie.
"Nonsense! Pull yourself together, child!" urged Gowan. "Get some stiffening into you, can't you?"
"I'm going to have umpteen dozen fits!"
"You've got to reckon with me if you spoil the play, so there! Don't be a silly cockchafer!"
"Are we downhearted?" twittered Bertha.
"No!" answered a stalwart chorus of three, hauling up Dulcie, who was sitting on a chair shivering in the agonies of an acute attack of stage fright.
By this time the audience was trooping in, and seating itself upon the beds, and by frantic clapping clamored for the entertainment to begin. Gowan opened the show, and took the stage in the character of Miss Monica Morton, an elderly spinster. Her make-up was very good, considering the limited resources of the company. Some cotton wool did service for white hair neatly arranged under a boudoir cap; her dress (borrowed from Noreen, who was a head taller than Gowan) fell to her ankles; she wore spectacles, and wrinkles had been carefully painted across her forehead. Bertha, a forward chit of a maidservant (servants on the stage invariably assume a cheekiness of manner that would never be tolerated by any employer in private life), bounced in and handed her a letter, and stood making grimaces to the audience while her mistress—very foolishly—read its contents aloud. It ran thus:
"11 Park Lane,
"Mayfair.