The curtain went up to the soft strains of a tune which I, who have had to play accompaniments to so many songs, didn’t know.... But beside us and behind us there were old ladies who murmured, “Ah! ‘She wore a Wreath of Roses.’”
The play began, and I forgot everything else for a time.
In the first interval we amused ourselves by looking at the audience. They were nearly all elderly ladies! As the Governor remarked, “Nancy! Yours and mine are the only heads for three rows of seats that aren’t grey-haired or covered with bonnets!”
“They’ve come to catch echoes of their past,” I murmured flippantly as those tunes from the Mikado sent the curtain up on Act II.
That finished my flippancy for me.
In what seemed like hours afterwards I heard Mr. Waters’ voice, cool and detached, saying something about good acting and soothing syrup and the most sentimental public in the world, then breaking off suddenly, anxiously to exclaim, “What is it, Nancy? Aren’t you well?”
“Of c-course I am! I’m only enjoying myself!” I sobbed quietly; tears dripping down on to the pleated frill of my afternoon blouse. “I think it’s p-perfectly lovely!” And I dabbed my face with the powder-puff swathed in my handkerchief.
“Rum idea of enjoyment,” said the Governor doubtfully.
“Not a bit rum,” I argued, having steadied myself again. “You don’t know much about girls—they’re mostly like that—ask any of them—ask any of the other typists in your office!”