Act II

Night has fallen, and Amy is probably now in her bedroom, fully arrayed
for her dreadful mission. 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.

That is how it ought to be, that is how Amy has seen it several times
in the past week; and now that we come to the grapple we wish we could
give you what you want, for you do want it, you have been used to it,
and you will feel that you are looking at a strange middle act without
it. But Steve cannot have such a room as this, he has only two hundred
and fifty pounds a year, including the legacy from his aunt. Besides,
though he is to be a Lothario (in so far as we can manage it) he is
not at present aware of this, and has made none of the necessary
arrangements; if one of his lamps is knocked over it will certainly
explode; and there cannot be a secret door without its leading into
the adjoining house. (Theatres keep special kinds of architects to
design their rooms.) There is indeed a little cupboard where his
crockery is kept, and if Amy is careful she might be able to squeeze
in there. We cannot even make the hour midnight; it is eight-thirty,
quite late enough for her to be out alone.

Steve has just finished dinner, in his comfortable lodgings. He is not
even in evening dress, but he does wear a lounge jacket, which we
devoutly hope will give him a rakish air to Amy's eyes. He would
undoubtedly have put on evening dress if he had known she was coming.