husband, the woman friend who is to save them; he says little, but is
responsible for all the arrangements going right; before the curtain
rises he may be conceived trying the lamp and making sure that the
lady will not stick in the door.

That is how it ought to be, that is how Amy has seen it several times
in the past week; and now that we come to the grapple we wish we could
give you what you want, for you do want it, you have been used to it,
and you will feel that you are looking at a strange middle act without
it. But Steve cannot have such a room as this, he has only two hundred
and fifty pounds a year, including the legacy from his aunt. Besides,
though he is to be a Lothario (in so far as we can manage it) he is
not at present aware of this, and has made none of the necessary
arrangements; if one of his lamps is knocked over it will certainly
explode; and there cannot be a secret door without its leading into
the adjoining house. (Theatres keep special kinds of architects to
design their rooms.) There is indeed a little cupboard where his
crockery is kept, and if Amy is careful she might be able to squeeze
in there. We cannot even make the hour midnight; it is eight-thirty,
quite late enough for her to be out alone.

Steve has just finished dinner, in his comfortable lodgings. He is not
even in evening dress, but he does wear a lounge jacket, which we
devoutly hope will give him a rakish air to Amy's eyes. He would
undoubtedly have put on evening dress if he had known she was coming.
His man, Richardson, is waiting on him. When we wrote that we
deliberated a long time. It has an air, and with a little low cunning
we could make you think to the very end that Richardson was a male.
But if the play is acted and you go to see it, you would be
disappointed. Steve, the wretched fellow, never had a Man, and