tolerable than the attempt of a phonetically untaught person to
imitate the vulgar dialect of the golf club; and I am sorry to
say that in spite of the efforts of our Academy of Dramatic Art,
there is still too much sham golfing English on our stage, and
too little of the noble English of Forbes Robertson.




ACT I

Covent Garden at 11.15 p.m. Torrents of heavy summer rain. Cab
whistles blowing frantically in all directions. Pedestrians
running for shelter into the market and under the portico of St.
Paul's Church, where there are already several people, among them
a lady and her daughter in evening dress. They are all peering
out gloomily at the rain, except one man with his back turned to
the rest, who seems wholly preoccupied with a notebook in which
he is writing busily.

The church clock strikes the first quarter.

THE DAUGHTER [in the space between the central pillars, close to
the one on her left] I'm getting chilled to the bone. What can
Freddy be doing all this time? He's been gone twenty minutes.

THE MOTHER [on her daughter's right] Not so long. But he ought to
have got us a cab by this.

A BYSTANDER [on the lady's right] He won't get no cab not until