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!
[FORESON walks straight out into the wings, Left.]
VANE. Mr Foreson!