dont know: I didnt read it. I handed it to Billy
Burjoyce--the producer, you know--and left it to him to select the
company and so on. But I should have had to order the costumes if there
had been any. There wernt.

THE COUNT. [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I understand. She
has taken the costumes into her own hands. She is an expert in beautiful
costumes. I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what you are about
to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by Watteau. The
heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a dainty Harlequin,
her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet who hoodwinks the
father and brings about the happiness of the lovers a grotesque but
perfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or Sganarelle.

SAVOYARD. I see. That makes three men; and the clown and policeman will
make five. Thats why you wanted five men in the company.

THE COUNT. My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly,
silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of
a nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime! What was it after
all but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of
Grimaldi a hundred years ago? My daughter does not know of the existence
of such a thing. I refer to the graceful and charming fantasies of the
Italian and French stages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harlequinades are rot.
Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres. But from what Billy Burjoyce
told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about here, and
had seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she'd been away in Venice all
the time.

THE COUNT. Oh, she has not been. I should have explained that two
years ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge.
Cambridge was my own University; and though of course there were no
women there in my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of the
eighteenth century still existed anywhere in England, it would be at
Cambridge. About three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I
wished to give her a present on her next birthday. Of course I said
yes; and she then astonished and delighted me by telling me that she
had written a play, and that the present she wanted was a private
performance of it with real actors and real critics.

SAVOYARD. Yes: thats what staggered me. It was easy enough to engage
a company for a private performance