his silence to his preoccupation and interest in Marion. So the
two grew apart, each misunderstanding the other and each troubled
in spirit at the other's indifference.

The first night of the play justified all that Marion and Wimpole
had claimed for it, and was a great personal triumph for the new
playwright. The audience was the typical first-night
audience of the class which Charles Wimpole always commanded. It
was brilliant, intelligent, and smart, and it came prepared to be
pleased.

From one of the upper stage-boxes Helen and Lady Gower watched
the successful progress of the play with an anxiety almost as
keen as that of the author. To Helen it seemed as though the
giving of these lines to the public--these lines which he had so
often read to her, and altered to her liking--was a desecration.
It seemed as though she were losing him indeed--as though he now
belonged to these strange people, all of whom were laughing and
applauding his words, from the German Princess in the Royal box
to the straight-backed Tommy in the pit. Instead of the painted
scene before her, she saw the birch-trees by the river at home,
where he had first read her the speech to which they were now
listening so intensely--the speech in which the hero tells the
girl he loves her. She remembered that at the time she had
thought how wonderful it would be if some day some one made such
a speech to her--not Philip--but a man she loved. And now?
If Philip would only make that speech to her now!

He came out at last, with Wimpole leading him, and bowed across a
glaring barrier of lights at a misty but vociferous audience that