He moved down-stage, applied his eye to a secret hole in the set through which he could watch the action and held out his arm in warning to the stage-hand who then lifted the effects gun. Martyn went down the passage as Bennington came off. He caught her up: ‘Miss Tarne. Wait a moment, will you?’

Dreading another intolerable encounter Martyn faced him. His make-up had been designed to exhibit the brutality of the character and did so all too successfully. The lips were painted a florid red, the pouches under the eyes and the sensual drag from the nostrils to the mouth had been carefully emphasized. He was sweating heavily through the greasepaint and his face glistened in the dull light of the passage.

‘I just wanted to say’—he began and at that moment the gun was fired and Martyn gave an involuntary cry; he went on talking—’when I see it,’ he was saying, ‘I suppose you aren’t to be blamed for that. You saw your chance and took it. Gay and Adam tell me you offered to get out and were not allowed to go. That may be fair enough: I wouldn’t know. But I’m not worrying about that.’ He spoke disjointedly. It was as if his thoughts were too disordered for any coherent expression. ‘I just wanted to tell you that you needn’t suppose what I’m going to do—you needn’t think—I mean—’

He touched his shining face with the palm of his hand. Jacko came down the passage and took Martyn by the elbow. ‘Quick,’ he said, ‘into your room. You want powdering, Ben. Excuse me.’

Bennington went into his own room. Jacko thrust Martyn into hers, and leaving the door open followed Bennington. She heard him say: ‘Take care with your upper lip. It is dripping with sweat.’ He darted back to Martyn, stood her near the dressing-shelf and, with an expression of the utmost concentration effected a number of what he called running repairs to her make-up and her hair. They heard Percival and Darcey go past on their way to the stage. A humming noise caused by some distant dynamo made itself heard, the tap in the wash-basin dripped, the voices on the stage sounded intermittently. Martyn looked at Gay’s make-up box, at her dressing-gown and at the array of mascots on the shelf and wished very heavily that Jacko would have done. Presently the call-boy came down the passage with his summons for the final curtain. ‘Come,’ said Jacko.

He took her round to the prompt side.