"Jack, Jack, you mustn't strike."
"Out of the way, I say, I'll——"
"Jack, Jack, you mustn't strike. Can't you understand? Don't you see—what it is. . . ."
"What do you mean—stand back from me."
"Jack he—is—your—father."
The knife clatters to the floor. "My God!"
And then the curtain falls—and there's a burst of applause and, in accordance with all the best traditions of the stage, one moment later, Lady Cicely and Mr. Harding and Sir John and Mrs. Harding are all bowing and smiling like anything, and even the little French maid sneaks on in a corner of the stage and simpers.
Then the orchestra plays and the leopards sneak out and the people in the boxes are all talking gayly to show that they're not the least affected. And everybody is wondering how it will come out, or rather how it can possibly come out at all, because some of them explain that it's all wrong, and just as they are making it clear that there shouldn't be any third act, the curtain goes up and it's——
