“On stage,” vociferated Monsieur Gerardy, perspiring from his exertions with the furniture. “ ‘Marion enters, timid and hesitating, L. C. ’ Come, who’s Marion? Mademoiselle Gretry, if you please, and for the love of God remember your crossings. Sh! sh!” he cried, waving his arms at the others. “A little silence if you please. Now, Marion.”

Isabel Gretry, holding her playbook at her side, one finger marking the place, essayed an entrance with the words:

“ ‘Ah, the old home once more. See the clambering roses have⁠—’ ”

But Monsieur Gerardy, suddenly compressing his lips as if in a heroic effort to repress his emotion, flung himself into a chair, turning his back and crossing his legs violently. Miss Gretry stopped, very much disturbed, gazing perplexedly at the coach’s heaving shoulders.

There was a strained silence, then: