VANE. Is that boulder firm?

PROPS. [Going to where, in front of the back-cloth, and apparently
among its apple trees, lies the counterfeitment of a mossy boulder;
he puts his foot on it] If, you don't put too much weight on it,
sir.

VANE. It won't creak?

PROPS. Nao. [He mounts on it, and a dolorous creaking arises.]

VANE. Make that right. Let me see that lute.

[PROPS produces a property lute. While they scrutinize it, a
broad man with broad leathery clean-shaven face and small mouth,
occupied by the butt end of a cigar, has come on to the stage
from Stage Left, and stands waiting to be noticed.]

PROPS. [Attracted by the scent of the cigar] The Boss, Sir.

VANE. [Turning to "PROPS"] That'll do, then.

["PROPS" goes out through the French windows.]

VANE. [To FRUST] Now, sir, we're all ready for rehearsal of
"Orpheus with his Lute."

FRUST. [In a cosmopolitan voice] "Orphoos with his loot!" That his
loot, Mr Vane? Why didn't he pinch something more precious? Has