being centred upon the
fishy-eyed young man, who did, implicitly. Soon it became apparent that
the whole of us were watching the fishy-eyed young man to the utter
neglect of our own business. Mr. Hodgson even looked up from his
letters; the orchestra was playing out of time; the author of the
English version and the leading lady exchanged glances. Three people
only appeared not to be enjoying themselves: the chief comedian, the
stage manager and the fishy-eyed young gentleman himself, who pursued
his labours methodically and conscientiously. There was a whispered
confabulation between the leading low comedian, Mr. Hodgson and the
stage manager. As a result, the music ceased and the fishy-eyed young
gentleman was requested to explain what he was doing.

"Only making love," replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman.

"You were playing the fool, sir," retorted the leading low comedian,
severely.

"That is a very unkind remark," replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman,
evidently hurt, "to make to a gentleman who is doing his best."

Mr. Hodgson behind his letters was laughing. "Poor fellow," he murmured;
"I suppose he can't help it. Go on."

"We are not producing a pantomime, you know," urged our comedian.

"I want to give him a chance, poor devil," explained Mr. Hodgson in a
lower voice. "Only support of a widowed mother."

Our comedian appeared inclined to argue; but at this point Mr. Hodgson's
correspondence became absorbing.

For the chorus the second act was a busy one. We opened as soldiers
and vivandieres, every warrior in this way possessing his own private
travelling bar. Our stage manager again explained to us by example how
a soldier behaves, first under stress of patriotic emotion, and secondly
under stress of cheap cognac, the difference being somewhat subtle:
patriotism displaying itself by slaps upon the chest, and cheap cognac
by slaps upon the forehead. A little later we were conspirators; our
stage manager, with the help of a tablecloth, showed us how to conspire.
Next we were a mob, led by the sentimental baritone; our stage manager,
ruffling his hair, expounded to us how a mob led by a sentimental
baritone would naturally behave itself. The act wound up with a fight.
Our stage manager, minus his coat, demonstrated to us how to fight and
die, the dying being a painful and dusty performance, necessitating, as
it did, much rolling about on the stage. The fishy-eyed young gentleman
throughout the whole