He had no school work that morning, for examinations were nearly over, and he intended to correct papers in the Men Teachers’ Room for the greater part of the day. He was free, therefore, to go to a florist’s, where he ordered a large bunch of flowers.

“To whom shall we send it?” asked the clerk.

He could not speak her name. A flush spread over his face and his head ached.

“I’ll write the address for you,” said he.

“You’ll find a nice selection of cards on the desk.”

A nice selection of cards. The first one he saw said “In deepest Sympathy”; the next, “For a Joyous Occasion”; a third, bearing the picture of what might have been a baboon, but was perhaps intended for an Irishman, said “May good luck go wid ye. And throuble forgit ye”. He chose a plain white card, and pondered long over his message. Dared he make a declaration of love in this way? No, no; the florist’s men might read it, and know what was for her eye alone. But could he not say something which would mean nothing to the idly curious, but which would carry his meaning to her? He wrote:

He read it several times. He could not put his finger on what was wrong with it, but somehow it would not do. When he tried to crush the immensities of his emotions into words, he could not get his meaning clear. At last he wrote:

He addressed the envelope and hurried out of the shop before the florist should learn his secret.

“Half an hour. This is your half hour call. You will receive a call at the quarter hour, and another at five minutes before curtain time. The beginners will then assemble backstage.” Larry Pye’s voice, vastly amplified, rang through The Shed. He spoke solemnly, as befitted a man using a public address system of his own devising, and his enunciation was pedantically clear.

Roger Tasset leapt from the chair in which he was being made up, and seized a small microphone which hung near the loud-speaker.

“Stage Management? Stage Management? Message received. Wilco.”

Larry’s voice was heard again, excited and quite normal in tone.

“How’s it coming in, Rodge?”

“Fine, Larry; couldn’t be better.”

Delighted, Roger submitted himself again to the hands of the makeup artist.

What babies men are, thought Valentine. All this fuss about messages that could be much better done by a call-girl.

The Shed was filled with people. Tom had cleared it for the use of the Little Theatre, and tables and chairs for makeup had been brought in. Several experienced hands were at work on the faces of the actors, under Valentine’s watchful eye, and in a corner Auntie Puss laboured over Hector Mackilwraith. She treated his face as though it were a blackboard; if an effect did not please her, she roughly scrubbed it off with a towel and tried another. She would examine him intently through her magnifying glass, and then go to work without its aid.

“A little white at the temples, I think,” said she. “What we call a Distinguished Grey. Very becoming.”

“Miss Pottinger, why are you putting yellow in Mr Mackilwraith’s hair?” said Valentine.

“Dear dear; I must have picked up the wrong stick in error. Ah, well; a little powder will mend that; it’s a very neutral sort of yellow.”

“Perhaps one of the others will put on Mr Mackilwraith’s beard, Miss Pottinger. You must not tire yourself.”

“Please do not worry about me, Miss Rich. I understand all about beards.”

“I am sure you do. But I do not want to impose on your good nature.”

“Miss Rich, the Earl of Minto once told me that he considered me to be a real artist at this work. And as you know, he painted china beautifully. Give me time, and I shall finish Mr Mackilwraith and put touches on all the others.”

Not if I know it, thought Valentine. She had contrived to have all the girls made up elsewhere, in a room which Griselda had offered inside the house, and she felt that she could protect the men against Auntie Puss. Great God! Look at her! With a black lining-stick she was drawing what appeared to be comic spectacles around Mackilwraith’s eyes. Oh well, he’s so bad anyway that it doesn’t matter too much what he looks like. We’ll just have to write him off as a total loss; every amateur show has at least one.

The door opened and Freddy bounced in, dressed as the goddess Ceres.

“Miss Rich,” said she, “Mr Cobbler wants to know whether you want God Save the King played at the beginning or end of the performance.”

“At the beginning,” said Valentine; “we decided that days ago.”

“He said you had, but Mrs Forrester told him to play it at the end.”

“I’ll talk to them about it,” said Valentine, and hurried out.

“You’re quite a cute kid, painted up like that,” said Roger to Freddy.

“I object very much to being called a cute kid,” she replied. “If it is God’s will that I should be pretty, I’ll be pretty; if I am to be plain, I shall be plain without complaint. But come what will, I shall never be vulgar. Only vulgar people are cute kids.”

“You’re going to be pretty, like your sister,” said Geordie Shortreed, hideously made up as Caliban.

“Griselda is very pretty,” said Freddy. “It’s a shame she has no brains. If brains ever came back into fashion for girls, it would be a bad day for her. The Torso’s a bit squiffed. I can’t stand people who don’t know how to hold their drink.”

“The old Torso squiffed?” said Roger. “Why?”

“She says she took just a nip to give her courage for the performance. That nip went to her head, so she had another to straighten her out, and they both went to her legs.”

“As who wouldn’t?” said Geordie, and was crushed by an austere look from Professor Vambrace, who now had a beard two feet long.

“She’s been nipping at intervals ever since,” Freddy continued. “She has a flask in the girls’ dressing-room. She may have to be put down with a strong hand.”

Solly had come in. “Talking about The Torso?” said he. “Juno has certainly been hitting the jug. When I last saw her Griselda was holding an ice-bag on her head, and Cora Fielding was laying hot-water bottles to her feet. A gay girl, lovable and undependable.”

The door opened and an elderly man with two teeth, carrying a violin case, entered The Shed, followed by a colourless thin woman, and a dark and greasy man with a piano accordion hanging around his neck on a leather strap.

“This where we come?” asked the old man. He then caught sight of Solly.

“Oh, hello there,” said he. “Glad to see you, Mr Bridgetower. Can we just have a little run over the play before we start? You tell me where you want the music to come, and we’ll fit it in somehow.”

Solly turned white. “Good evening, Mr Snairey,” said he, and fled through the door.

“It is useless to appeal to me in this matter,” said Humphrey Cobbler when, a few minutes later, he, Valentine, Mrs Forrester, Solly and the Snairey Trio gathered on the lawn outside The Shed. “I am a musician, and as such I have come here to provide music for this play. I have devoted approximately twenty hours of rehearsal to it. I have assembled a choir of ten and an orchestra of eight, and they are all in readiness at this moment. We have rehearsed the music with the full company six times. Now, if you want me to go away, I shall do so. If you want me to stay, I shall be delighted. But what I positively will not do is wrangle with Mr Snairey.”