d privately purchased a reserved seat with intent to sense
for himself the feeling of the upper part of the house during the first
act. Keeping his muffler pinned close so that his evening dress escaped
notice, he found his way down to the railing quite secure from
recognition by any one at the peep-hole of the curtain or in the boxes,
and there took his seat to watch the late-comers ripple down the aisles.
He was experienced enough to know that "first-nighters" do not always
count and that they are sometimes false prophets, and yet he could not
suppress a growing exaltation as the beautiful auditorium filled with
men and women such as he had himself often called "representative," and,
best of all, many of the city's artists and literarians were present.

He knew also that the dramatic critics were assembling, jaded and worn
with ceaseless attendance on worthless dramas, a condition which should
have fitted them for the keener enjoyment of any fresh, original work,
but he did not deceive himself. He knew from their snarling onslaughts
on plays he had praised that they were not to be pleased with
anything--at least not all of them at the same time. That they were
friendly to Helen he knew, that they would praise her he was assured,
but that they would "slate" his play he was beginning to find
inevitable.

As the curtain rose on the first scene he felt the full force of Helen's
words, "You won't enjoy the performance at all." He began now to pay for
the joy he had taken in her companionship. He knew the weakness of every
actor, and suffered with them and for them. Royleston from the first
tortured him by mumbling his lines, palpably "faking" at times. "The
idiot, he'll fail to give his cues!" muttered Douglass. "He'll ruin the
play." The children scared him also, they were so important to Helen at
the close of the act.

At last the star came on--so quietly that the audience did not at the
moment recognize her, but when those nearest the stage started a
greeting to her it was taken up all over the shining house--a
magnificent "hand."

Never before had Helen Merival appeared before an audience in character
so near her own good self, and the lovely simplicity of her manner came
as a revelation to those of her admirers who had longed to know more of
her private character. For several minutes they applauded while she
smilingly bowed, but at last the clapping died away, and each auditor
shrugged himself into an easy posture