So far I have been writing as if you were already in the thick of your
play; but it may well be that the enormous difficulty of getting the
first character on has been too much for you. How, you may be wondering,
are you to begin your masterpiece?

The answer to this will depend upon the length of the play, for upon the
length depends the hour at which the curtain rises. If yours is an 8.15
play you may be sure that the stalls will not fill up till 8.30, and you
should therefore let loose the lesser-paid members of the cast on the
opening scene, keeping your fifty-pounders in reserve. In an 8.45 play
the audience may be plunged into the drama at once. But this is much the
more difficult thing to do, and for the beginner I should certainly
recommend the 8.15 play, for which the recipe is simple.

As soon as the lights go down, and while the bald, stout gentleman is
kicking our top-hat out of his way, treading heavily on our toes and
wheezing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a buzz begins
behind the curtain. What the players are saying is not distinguishable,
but a merry girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by the short
sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of the world. Then the curtain rises,
and it is apparent that we are assisting at an At Home of considerable
splendour. Most of the characters seem to be on the stage, and for once
we do not ask how they got there. We presume they have all been invited.
Thus you have had no difficulty with your entrances.

_As the chatter dies down a chord is struck on the piano_.

_The Bishop of Sploshington_. Charming. Quite one of my favourites. Do
play it again. _(Relapses into silence for the rest of the evening.)_