The Man With Two Left Feet

he thought he had done so, the hidden orchestra would burst into melody and the chorus would be called to the front.
    It was not till late in the second act that he found an opportunity for further speech.
    The plot of 'The Girl From Brighton' had by then reached a critical stage. The situation was as follows: The hero, having been disinherited by his wealthy and titled father for falling in love with the heroine, a poor shop–girl, has disguised himself (by wearing a different coloured necktie) and has come in pursuit of her to a well–known seaside resort, where, having disguised herself by changing her dress, she is serving as a waitress in the Rotunda, on the Esplanade. The family butler, disguised as a Bath–chair man, has followed the hero, and the wealthy and titled father, disguised as an Italian opera–singer, has come to the place for a reason which, though extremely sound, for the moment eludes the memory. Anyhow, he is there, and they all meet on the Esplanade. Each recognizes the other, but thinks he himself is unrecognized.
Exeunt
all, hurriedly, leaving the heroine alone on the stage.
    It is a crisis in the heroine's life. She meets it bravely. She sings a song entitled 'My Honolulu Queen', with chorus of Japanese girls and Bulgarian officers.
    Alice was one of the Japanese girls.
    She was standing a little apart from the other Japanese girls. Henry was on her with a bound. Now was his time. He felt keyed up, full of persuasive words. In the interval which had elapsed since their last conversation yeasty emotions had been playing the dickens with his self–control. It is practically impossible for a novice, suddenly introduced behind the scenes of a musical comedy, not to fall in love with somebody; and, if he is already in love, his fervour is increased to a dangerous point.
    Henry felt that it was now or never. He forgot that it was perfectly possible—indeed, the reasonable course—to wait till the performance was over, and renew his appeal to Alice to marry him on the way back to her hotel. He had the feeling that he had got just about a quarter of a minute. Quick action! That was Henry's slogan.
    He seized her hand.
    'Alice!'
    'Sh–h!' hissed the stage–manager.
    'Listen! I love you. I'm crazy about you. What does it matter whether I'm on the stage or not? I love you.'
    'Stop that row there!'
    'Won't you marry me?'
    She looked at him. It seemed to him that she hesitated.
    'Cut it out!' bellowed the stage–manager, and Henry cut it out.
    And at this moment, when his whole fate hung in the balance, there came from the stage that devastating high note which is the sign that the solo is over and that the chorus are now about to mobilize. As if drawn by some magnetic power, she suddenly receded from him, and went on to the stage.
    A man in Henry's position and frame of mind is not responsible for his actions. He saw nothing but her; he was blind to the fact that important manoeuvres were in progress. All he understood was that she was going from him, and that he must stop her and get this thing settled.
    He clutched at her. She was out of range, and getting farther away every instant.
    He sprang forward.
    The advice that should be given to every young man starting life is—if you happen to be behind the scenes at a theatre, never spring forward. The whole architecture of the place is designed to undo those who so spring. Hours before, the stage–carpenters have laid their traps, and in the semi–darkness you cannot but fall into them.
    The trap into which Henry fell was a raised board. It was not a very highly–raised board. It was not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church–door, but 'twas enough—it served. Stubbing it squarely with his toe, Henry shot forward, all arms and legs.
    It is the instinct of Man, in such a situation, to grab at the nearest support. Henry grabbed at the Hotel Superba, the pride of the Esplanade. It was a thin wooden edifice, and it supported him for perhaps a tenth of a second. Then he staggered with it into the limelight, tripped over a Bulgarian officer who was inflating himself for a deep note, and finally fell in a complicated heap as exactly in the centre of the stage as if he had been a star of years' standing.
    It went well; there was no question of that. Previous audiences had always been rather cold towards this particular song, but this one got on its feet and yelled for more. From all over the house came rapturous demands that Henry should go