ning?” cries the dramatist after another quarter of an hour.
“There’s a bracket to be fixed here,” the producer answers, deep in thought.
The dramatist sits down again crushed; he plainly sees that they are all more interested in a bit of a damned bracket than in his precious play; and he wonders what kind of a damned bracket it really is.
“Mr. Author! Why aren’t we beginning?” inquires a female voice out of the darkness of the auditorium.
“There’s a bracket to be fixed somewhere,” replies the dramatist in a somewhat technical manner, since he is using the word “bracket.” At the same time he tries to make out who is speaking to him but only succeeds in locating an odour of tar and toilet soap.
“It’s me, Katie,” comes the answer out of the darkness. “How do you like my costume?”
Ah! Yes! Clothes! The dramatist is glad that anyone should value his opinion at
61
