"Fantasy floods in where fact leaves a vacuum," declares Miss Laetitia "Lettice" Douffet ( pronounced "doo-FAY", thank you ) . To that end, the tour guide to "the dullest house in England" proceeds to embellish her accounts of the building's history with an ever-escalating inventory of speculative details, to the elation of her charges and the chagrin of Miss Charlotte Schoen, her supervisor at the Preservation Trust conducting the educational excursions.

But just when we think this will be a Shavian comedy pitting practical-minded commoners—Lettice is not above soliciting tips from her rapt audiences—against stuffy authorities, our confabulating heroine reveals an agenda beyond simply livening up her boring job and making a little money on the side. Her mission is to liberate the citizens of a drab modern society through vivid stories designed to restore the drama and excitement of a romanticized past. Gradually, her straitlaced adversary becomes infected by this obsessive lunacy ( assisted by liberal draughts of a homemade liquor possessing mysterious properties ) . Their unlikely camaraderie leads to make-believe games that nearly end in tragedy after a re-enactment of Charles the First's beheading in 1645.

Fanciful interpretations of documented chronicles, based in fuzzy nostalgia, are an easy sell to American audiences. Yes, we know that the great upheavals of yore were as much endured as enjoyed by our ancestors and that no age has a monopoly on thrilling deeds or soul-starving drudgery, but if we are to empathize with these pre-menopausal spinsters immersed in folie à deux, their disdain for self-effacing mediocrity and hunger for grand gestures must capture our imaginations as inexorably as it does theirs.

The key to persuading us to buy into author Peter Shaffer's manifesto is to seduce, rather than overwhelm, us with its passion. Fortunately, director Steve Scott has at his disposal Millicent Hurley and Jan Ellen Graves, a pair of actresses who attack their roles with a gusto never spilling over into excess. In the tiny Redtwist Theatre storefront where the energy from the stage is capable of filling the room to its corners, the conjuration always begins quietly, gradually swelling to its crescendo with each of us following as entranced as the subordinate characters likewise drawn in. If, at curtain call, you feel an inexplicable impulse to rise up and give three cheers, you won't be alone.