As a charming and gifted little actress said to me only yesterday, "We want
something a bit meatier than the dry old bones of IBSEN'S ghosts." Well, I
am out to provide that something; my present success certainly does not
lack for flesh.

In producing _Shoo, Charlotte!_ I have taken several hints from that
formidable young rival of the articulate stage known as the Silent Drama.
There effects are flung at the spectator's head like balls at a cocoanut;
if they fail to register a hit it is the fault of the shier, not of the
nut. My aim throughout has been to throw hard and true, so that even the
thickest nut is left in no doubt as to the actuality of the impact. _Shoo,
Charlotte!_ makes no high-sounding attempt at improving the public taste.
As the dramatic critic of _The Sabbath Scoop_ pithily remarked, it is just
"one long feast of laughter and _lingerie_," and its nightly triumph is the
only vindication it requires.

The fundamental mistake of the British drama of to-day lies, in my humble
opinion, in its perpetual striving after the unexpected. The public, such
as I have described it, fights shy of novel situations; it isn't sure how
they ought to be taken. But give it a play where it knows exactly what is
going to happen next and you are rewarded with the delighted applause that
comes of prophecy fulfilled. The thrill or chuckle of anticipation is
succeeded by the shudder or guffaw of realisation. Father nudges Mother and
says, "Look, Emma, he's going to fall into the flour-bin." He does fall
into the flour-bin, and Father slaps his own or Mother's knee with a roar
of triumph. After all, the old dramatic formulæ were not drawn up without a
profound knowledge of human nature.

Let managers take a lesson from these few observations and they will no
longer go about seeking an answer to the riddle, "Why did the cocoanut