"WILLIAM SMITH, EDITOR"
The scene is the Editor's room in the office of The Lark. Two walls
of the room are completely hidden from floor to ceiling by
magnificently-bound books: the third wall at the back is hidden by
boxes of immensely expensive cigars. The windows, of course, are in
the fourth wall, which, however, need not be described, as it is
never quite practicable on the stage. The floor of this apartment is
chastely covered with rugs shot by the Editor in his travels, or in
the Tottenham Court Road; or, in some cases, presented by admiring
readers from abroad. The furniture is both elegant and commodious.
William Smith, Editor, comes in. He is superbly dressed in a fur
coat and an expensive cigar. There is a blue pencil behind his ear,
and a sheaf of what we call in the profession "typewritten
manuscripts" under his arm. He sits down at his desk and pulls the
telephone towards him.
Smith (at the telephone). Hallo, is that you, Jones? ... Yes, it's
me. Just come up a moment. (Puts down telephone and begins to open
his letters.)
Enter Jones, his favourite sub-editor. He is dressed quite commonly,
and is covered with ink. He salutes respectfully as he comes into
the room.
Jones. Good-afternoon, chief.
Smith. Good-afternoon. Have a cigar?
Jones. Thank you, chief.
Smith. Have you anything to tell me?
Jones. The circulation is still going up, chief. It was three
million and eight last week.
Smith (testily). How often have I told you not to call me "chief,"
except when there are ladies present? Why can't you do what you're
told?
Jones. Sorry, sir, but the fact is there ARE ladies present.
Smith (fingering his moustache). Show them up. Who are they?
Jones. There is only one. She says she's the lady who has been
writing our anonymous "Secrets of the Boudoir" series which has made
such a sensation.
Smith (in amazement). I thought you told me YOU wrote these.
Jones (simply). I did.