Out in the dimness beyond the stage the thin figure of the new
playwright rose dazedly from an orchestra chair.

"What--what's this?" he stammered, the choked sounds he made
not reaching the stage.

"What's the matter?" The question came from Carson Tinker, but
his tone was incurious, manifesting no interest whatever.
Tinker's voice, like his pale, spectacled glance, was not
tired; it was dead.

"Tea!" gasped Canby. "People are sick of tea! I didn't write
any tea!"

"There isn't any," said Tinker. "The way he's got it, there's
an interruption before the tea comes, and it isn't brought in."

"But she's ordered it! If it doesn't come the audience will
wonder--"

"No," said Tinker. "They won't think of that. They won't hear
her order it."

"Then for heaven's sake, why has he put it in? I wrote this
play to begin right in the story--"

"That's the trouble. They never hear the beginning. They're
slamming seats, taking off wraps, looking round to see who's
there. That's why we used to begin plays with servants dusting
and 'Well-I-never-half-past-nine-and-the-young-master-not-yet-