Sir P. Cullen. My dear B. B., this is not Dubedat’s funeral. Do you think Bernard Shaw will like the new epilogue?
Bernard Shaw. He will; I’m shaw.
L. C. C. Inspector. Excuse me, is Mr. Vedrenne here? Ah, yes! There is Mr. Vedrenne. Will you kindly answer some of my questions? Is that door on the left a real door? In case of fire I cannot allow property doors; the actors might be seized with stage fright, and they must have, as Sir B. B. would say, ‘their exits and their entrances.’
Vedrenne. Everything at the Court Theatre, my dear sir, is real. Ask Mr. Franks, he will tell you the door is not even a jar. The art, the acting, the plays, even the audience is real, except a few dramatic critics I
cannot exclude. I admit the audience looks improbable at matinées; out of Court is a truth in art of which we are only dimly beginning to understand the significance. [Noise outside.
Enter Jennifer, dressed in deep mourning.
Jennifer (with a bright smile). Mr. Vedrenne, I have just had a telegram saying that my husband, Leo, was killed in his motor after leaving me at the Synagogue. His last words were: ‘Jennifer, promise me that you will wear mourning if I die, merely to mark the difference between Dubedat and myself.’ This afternoon I am going to marry Blenkinsop. How are the sales going?
Vedrenne. Well, I think we might have the catechism or the churching of heroines. What is your name?
Jennifer. Jennifer.
Vedrenne. Where did you get that name?