“Everybody on the stage.”
They trooped out, up the narrow stairs and along the dusty passages and through the wings on to the stage, where they were met by the ladies of the chorus, who came on from the other side; and then all grouped themselves in their customary attitudes under the stage-manager’s eye. Joyce was posed, second on the left, with a girl resting her head on his knee. He greeted her as she took her place.
“How are you to-night, Miss Stevens?” he whispered.
“Oh, badly. The heat in the dressing-room is awful.”
“So it is in ours. It is a wonder we don’t all melt together in a sticky lump.”
“It is the worst arranged theatre I was ever in.”
“I am sorry,” said Joyce, “you look tired.”
“Hush—the orchestra—”
The curtain rose slowly, revealing the glare of the footlights and the vague cavernous darkness of the auditorium, seen shimmering, as they reclined on the stage, through the band of unbumed gases above the jets.
The opening chorus began with its nodding-mandarin business, followed by eccentric evolutions. Then the tenor came on alone. He jostled Joyce who was standing near the entrance.