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decisive steps and always waited until the situation had been altered and the decision no longer had to be made. Doubtless it would all smooth itself out somehow.
    He slept soundly and woke late, so that it was already 10.30 by the time he set out for the theatre, and he cursed himself for allowing himself to be so late.
    The theatre was ten minutes’ brisk walking from the hotel. It stood near the outskirts of the city, a little drawn back from a long, residential street which also served as the main road to a neighbouring town. Contemplating it in the fresh, clear autumn sunlight, Nigel wondered if we didn’t sometimes do the Victorians an injustice by invariably condemning their architecture as graceless. Certainly in the present case the unknown architect had succeeded in conveying an impression of mellow, if slightly effeminate, charm to the building. It was a big place, built in soft yellow stone, and fronted by a wide lawn where on summer evenings the audience would stroll with drinks and cigarettes, during the intervals. The greater part of the building had been simply restored; only the proscenium, stage, dressing-rooms and bar had been completely modernized, the latter – which was on the first floor behind the circle, and to which two flights of steps led up from either side of the foyer – in a witty
pastiche
of the original style which blended charmingly with it. The two box-offices, too, had been provided with broad sheets of glass in place of the tiny roman arches through which transactions have to be carried on in the majority of old theatres.
    Nigel slipped quietly into the darkened stalls, still feeling annoyed with himself for being so late. He had wanted to watch all the rehearsals and get some idea of how a play was actually built up to the first performance.
    He was surprised, however, to find that next to nothing was happening (later he realized that this is the case with about a third of every repertory rehearsal). Under working lights on the stage a few people stood or sat inactively about in the middle of the current play’s set, holding typed books and smoking or chattering in a subdued manner. A young woman whom Nigel took to be the stage manager was banging chairs and tables about so energetically that Nigel expected them to fall to pieces at any moment. Robert stood talking to someone beside the orchestra pit, across which an unsteady-looking plank was laid to provide a passage from the stage to the front of the house. A young man vaguely played a few bars of jazz on the piano in the orchestra pit.
    â€˜I wish we could get a move on,’ he said to someone on the stage.
    â€˜Clive hasn’t turned up yet.’
    â€˜Well, can’t we do the second act?’
    â€˜He’s on in all the acts.’
    â€˜Where in God’s name is he?’
    â€˜He said he was catching the 8.30 from town. Either it’s fantastically late or else he’s missed it.’
    â€˜What does the man keep rushing up to town for anyway?’
    â€˜He goes up to see his wife.’
    â€˜Good heavens. Every night?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Good heavens.’
    It was all curiously unreal, thought Nigel. The effect of artificial light probably. It had not previously occurred to him how little actors and actresses see of the sun. He became suddenly aware that he was unintentionally eavesdropping the conversation of two people who were standing in the darkness near him.
    â€˜But darling, must you run about after him like that?’
    â€˜Don’t be silly, darling, one’s got to be nice to these people if one’s going to get on at all.’
    â€˜You mean in the theatre you’ve got to use your sex to get yourself jobs!’
    â€˜Well, you surely don’t imagine people get parts out of sheer acting ability.’
    Someone in the electrician’s gallery switched on a flood, and in the momentary dazzle Nigel saw that the two were Donald and Yseut.