peppermint that emanated from the pit. The boxes were filled, and up
in the gallery grim-faced patrons of the drama, who had paid their
shillings at the door and intended to get a shilling's-worth of
entertainment in return, sat and waited stolidly for the curtain to
rise.

First nights at the theatre always excited Jill. The depression
induced by absorbing nourishment and endeavouring to make
conversation in the presence of Lady Underhill left her. The worst,
she told herself, had happened. She had met Derek's mother, and
Derek's mother plainly disliked her. Well, that, as Parker would have
said, was that. Now she just wanted to enjoy herself. She loved the
theatre. The stir, the buzz of conversation, the warmth and life of
it, all touched a chord in her which made depression impossible.

The lights shot up beyond the curtain. The house-lights dimmed.
Conversation ceased. The curtain rose. Jill wriggled herself
comfortably into her seat, and slipped her hand into Derek's. She
felt a glow of happiness as it closed over hers. All, she told
herself, was right with the world.

All, that is to say, except the drama which was unfolding on the
stage. It was one of those plays which start wrong and never recover.
By the end of the first ten minutes there had spread through the
theatre that uneasy feeling which comes over the audience at an
opening performance when it realises that it is going to be bored. A
sort of lethargy had gripped the stalls. The dress-circle was
coughing. Up in the gallery there was grim silence.

Sir Chester Portwood was an actor-manager who had made his reputation