Mrs. Perkins is seated on the other side of
the table, buttoning her gloves. Her wrap is on a chair near at
hand. The room is gracefully over-furnished.
Mrs. Perkins. Where are the seats, Thaddeus?
Perkins. Third row; and, by Jove! Bess (looking at his watch), we
must hurry. It is getting on towards eight now. The curtain rises
at 8.15.
Mrs. Perkins. The carriage hasn't come yet. It isn't more than a
ten minutes' drive to the theatre.
Perkins. That's true, but there are so many carriage-folk going to
see Irving that if we don't start early we'll find ourselves on the
end of the line, and the first act will be half over before we can
reach our seats.
Mrs. Perkins. I'm so glad we've got good seats--down near the front.
I despise opera-glasses, and seats under the galleries are so
oppressive.
Perkins. Well, I don't know. For The Lyons Mail I think a seat in
the front row of the top gallery, where you can cheer virtue and hiss
villany without making yourself conspicuous, is the best.
Mrs. Perkins. You don't mean to say that you'd like to sit up with
those odious gallery gods?
Perkins.
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