She says good-bye to her diary--perhaps for
aye. She steals from the house--to a very different scene, which (if one
were sufficiently daring) would represent a Man's Chambers at Midnight.
There is no really valid excuse for shirking this scene, which is so
popular that every theatre has it stowed away in readiness; it is
capable of 'setting' itself should the stage-hands forget to do so.
It should be a handsome, sombre room in oak and dark red, with
sinister easy chairs and couches, great curtains discreetly drawn, a
door to enter by, a door to hide by, a carelessly strewn table on
which to write a letter reluctantly to dictation, another table
exquisitely decorated for supper for two, champagne in an ice-bucket,
many rows of books which on close examination will prove to be painted
wood (the stage Lotharios not being really reading men). The lamps
shed a diffused light, and one of them is slightly odd in
construction, because it is for knocking over presently in order to
let the lady escape unobserved. Through this room moves occasionally
the man's Man, sleek, imperturbable, announcing the lady, the lady's
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.
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