Bless J. B. Priestley. For stretching a charming short story notion (girl plays England-wide hide-and-seek with boozy boyfriend to test his love and dry him out) into the perfect half-evening's snuggle. For pursuing the Priestley bugbears--unions, Americans, decibellic pop music, psychiatrists, women's lib, and directors who tinker with Shakespeare (""Antony's now a senile old lecher and Cleopatra's a malicious old bag"")--with tender rancor. For using ""hopefully"" correctly, for keeping up with the times on his own terms, for reminding us that human and humor are five-letter words with much in common. Bless him, and join him at the last outpost of one brand of civilization.