old-time terror. Yet it would be paltering with the truth to say that
the audience which had assembled to witness the opening performance
of the new play at the Leicester was entirely at its ease. The
asbestos curtain was already on its way down, which should have been
reassuring: but then asbestos curtains never look the part. To the
lay eye they seem just the sort of thing that will blaze quickest.
Moreover, it had not yet occurred to the man at the switchboard to
turn up the house-lights, and the darkness was disconcerting.

Portions of the house were taking the thing better than other
portions. Up in the gallery a vast activity was going on. The clatter
of feet almost drowned the shouting. A moment before it would have
seemed incredible that anything could have made the occupants of the
gallery animated, but the instinct of self-preservation had put new
life into them.

The stalls had not yet entirely lost their self-control. Alarm was in
the air, but for the moment they hung on the razor-edge between panic
and dignity. Panic urged them to do something sudden and energetic:
dignity counselled them to wait. They, like the occupants of the
gallery, greatly desired to be outside, but it was bad form to rush
and jostle. The men were assisting the women into their cloaks,
assuring them the while that it was "all right" and that they must
not be frightened. But another curl of smoke had crept out just
before the asbestos curtain completed its descent, and their words
lacked the ring of conviction. The movement towards the exits had not
yet become a stampede, but already those with seats nearest the stage
had begun to feel that the more fortunate individuals near the doors
were infernally slow in removing themselves.