The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house (Florence Towers, the
property of Count O'Dowda) has been curtained off to form a stage for a private
theatrical performance. A footman in grandiose Spanish livery enters before the
curtain, on its O.P. side.
FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard. [Cecil Savoyard comes in: a
middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur-lined overcoat. He is surprised to
find nobody to receive him. So is the Footman]. Oh, beg pardon, sir: I thought the
Count was here. He was when I took up your name. He must have gone through
the stage into the library. This way, sir. [He moves towards the division in the
middle of the curtains].
SAVOYARD. Half a mo. [The Footman stops]. When does the play begin? Half-
past eight?
SAVOYARD. Oh, good. Well, will you telephone to my wife at the George that it's
not until nine?
FOOTMAN. Right, sir. Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir?
SAVOYARD. No: Mrs William Tinkler. Dont forget.
THE FOOTMAN. Mrs Tinkler, sir. Right, sir. [The Count comes in through the
curtains]. Here is the Count, sir. [Announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard, sir. [He
withdraws].
COUNT O'DOWDA. [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied elegance a
hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake hands with his visitor]
Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard. I suddenly recollected that all the bookcases in
the library were locked--in fact theyve never been opened since we came from
Venice--and as our literary guests will probably use the library a good deal, I just
ran in to unlock everything.
SAVOYARD. Oh, you mean the dramatic critics. M'yes. I suppose theres a
smoking room?
