[During this speech MISS HELLGROVE is seen listening by the
French window, in distress, unnoticed by either of them.]
VANE. Mr Frost, the Public would take this, I'm sure they would; I'm convinced of it. You underrate them.
FRUST. Now, see here, Mr Blewitt Vane, is this my theatre? I tell you, I can't afford luxuries.
VANE. But it—it moved you, sir; I saw it. I was watching.
FRUST. [With unmoved finality] Mr Vane, I judge I'm not the average man. Before "Louisa Loses" the Public'll want a stimulant. "Pop goes the Weasel" will suit us fine. So—get right along with it. I'll go get some lunch.
[As he vanishes into the wings, Left, MISS HELLGROVE covers her face with her hands. A little sob escaping her attracts VANE'S attention. He takes a step towards her, but she flies.]
VANE. [Dashing his hands through his hair till it stands up]
Damnation!
[FORESON walks on from the wings, Right.]
FORESON. Sir?
VANE. "Punch and go!" That superstition!