"Isn't—isn't that right?"
As if with the words she had touched a spring, Monsieur Gerardy bounded to his feet.
"Grand God! Is that left-centre where you have made the entrance? In fine, I ask you a little—is that left-centre? You have come in by the rustic bench and practicable table set for breakfast. A fine sight on the night of the performance that. Marion climbs over the rustic breakfast and practicable—over the rustic bench and practicable table, ha, ha, to make the entrance." Still holding the play-book, he clapped hands with elaborate sarcasm. "Ah, yes, good business that. That will bring down the house."
Meanwhile the Gretry girl turned again from left-centre.
"'Ah, the old home again. See—'"
"Stop!" thundered Monsieur Gerardy. "Is that what you call timid and hesitating? Once more, those lines.... No, no. It is not it at all. More of slowness, more of—Here, watch me."
He made the entrance with laborious exaggeration of effect, dragging one foot after another, clutching at the palings of an imaginary fence, while pitching his voice at a feeble falsetto, he quavered:
"'Ah! The old home—ah ... once more. See—' like that," he cried, straightening up. "Now then. We try that entrance again. Don't come on too quick after the curtain. Attention. I clap my hands for the curtain, and count three." He backed away and, tucking the play-book under his arm, struck his palms together. "Now, one—two—three."
But this time Isabel Gretry, in remembering her "business," confused her stage directions once more.
"'Ah, the old home—'"