[The Stage, in the crude light, as empty now save for FRUST, who, in the French windows, Centre, is mumbling his cigar; and VANE, Stage Right, who is looking up into the wings, Stage Left.]
VANE. [Calling up] That lighting's just right now, Miller. Got it marked carefully?
VANE. Good. [To FRUST who as coming down] Well, sir? So glad----
FRUST. Mr Vane, we got little Miggs on contract?
FRUST. Well, I liked that little pocket piece fine. But I'm blamed if I know what it's all about.
VANE. [A little staggered] Why! Of course it's a little allegory. The tragedy of civilization--all real feeling for Beauty and Nature kept out, or pent up even in the cultured.
FRUST. Ye-ep. [Meditatively] Little Miggs'd be fine in "Pop goes the Weasel."
VANE. Yes, he'd be all right, but----