It is the Saturday night performance of the senior play. The curtain is about to rise. The aisles and back of the house are packed with people struggling for seats; alumnæ and under-class girls who have admission tickets only, are preparing to sit on all the steps; the junior ushers are hopelessly trying to keep back the press. It is to be supposed that the orchestra is playing, judging from the motion of arms and instruments. The lights are suddenly lowered and the curtain rises. The struggle for seats at the back, the expostulations of the ushers, and the comments of the alumnæ and students, who have seen the play twice before and consequently do not feel the need of close attention, completely drown the first words of the scene.
Back of house. Large and fussy mother, looking daggers at the sophomores squatting beside her, giggling at the useless efforts of a small worried usher to prevent a determined woman, escorted by her apologetic husband, from prancing down into the orchestra circle; and unimportant senior.
Mother. What? What? Who is this, Emma? Where are we?
Emma. That's Viola, Mother. She's just been shipwrecked, you know.
Mother. Oh, she's the heroine. She's the best actor, then?
Emma. Dear me, no. Malvolio's 'way by the best. And then Sir Toby and Maria—they're awfully good—you'll see them pretty soon now. I don't care for Viola much. She tries to imitate Ada Rehan—
Curtain drops on First Scene.
¶ Orchestra Circle. Handsome, portly father, exceptionally well set up, his wife, and head of department.
Father, with enthusiasm. By Jove! Is that a girl, really? You don't say so! Well, well! Sir Toby, eh? Well, well! And who's the little girl? Maria? Did you ever see anything much prettier than she is, Alice?
His Wife. She's very charming, certainly.