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----

_Act III. Three Months Later_

THE curtain rises on a drawing-room in Mrs. Harding's house in London.
Mrs. Harding is sitting at a table. She is sorting out parcels. There is
a great air of quiet about the scene. The third act of a problem play
always has to be very quiet. It is like a punctured football with the
wind going out of it. The play has to just poof itself out noiselessly.

For instance, this is the way it is done.

Does Mrs. Harding start to talk about Lady Cicely and Jack, and Paris?
Not a bit. She is simply looking over the parcels and writing names and
talking to herself so that the audience can get the names.

"For the Orphans' Home--poor little things. For the Foundlings'
Protection Society. For the Lost Infants' Preservation League" (a deep
sigh)--"poor, poor children."

Now what is all this about? What has this to do with the play? Why,
don't you see that it is the symbol of philanthropy, of gentleness, of
melancholy sadness? The storm is over and there is nothing in Mrs.
Harding's heart but pity. Don't you see that she is dressed in deeper
black than ever, and do you notice that look on her face--that third-act
air--that resignation?

Don't you see that the play is really all over? They're just letting the
wind out of it.

A man announces "Sir John Trevor."

Sir John steps in. Mrs. Harding goes to meet him with both hands out.

"My dear, dear friend," she says in rich, sad tones.

Sir John is all in black. He is much aged, but very firm and very quiet.
You can feel that he's been spending the morning with the committee of
the Homeless Newsboys' League or among the Directorate of the Lost
Waifs' Encouragement Association. In fact he begins to talk of these
things at o