“Stop!” thundered Monsieur Gerardy. “Is that what you call timid and hesitating? Once more, those lines.⁠ ⁠… No, no. It is not it at all. More of slowness, more of⁠—Here, watch me.”

He made the entrance with laborious exaggeration of effect, dragging one foot after another, clutching at the palings of an imaginary fence, while pitching his voice at a feeble falsetto, he quavered:

“ ‘Ah! The old home⁠—ah⁠ ⁠… once more. See⁠—’ like that,” he cried, straightening up. “Now then. We try that entrance again. Don’t come on too quick after the curtain. Attention. I clap my hands for the curtain, and count three.” He backed away and, tucking the playbook under his arm, struck his palms together. “Now, one⁠—two⁠— three. ”

But this time Isabel Gretry, in remembering her “business,” confused her stage directions once more.

“ ‘Ah, the old home⁠—’ ”