"I am so glad, Phil," she said. She felt it all so deeply that
she was afraid to say more, but that meant so much to her that
she was sure he would understand.

He had planned it very differently. For a year he had dreamed
that, on the first night of his play, there would be a supper,
and that he would rise and drink her health, and tell his friends
and the world that she was the woman he loved, and that she had
agreed to marry him, and that at last he was able, through the
success of his play, to make her his wife.

And now they met in a crowd to shake hands, and she went her way
with one of her grand ladies, and he was left among a group of
chattering strangers. The great English playwright took him by
the hand and in the hearing of all, praised him gracefully and
kindly. It did not matter to Philip whether the older playwright
believed what he said or not; he knew it was generously meant.

"I envy you this," the great man was saying. "Don't lose any of
it, stay and listen to all they have to say. You will never live
through the first night of your first play but once."

"Yes, I hear them," said Philip, nervously; "they are all too
kind. But I don't hear the voice I have been listening for," he
added in a whisper. The older man pressed his hand again
quickly. "My dear boy," he said, "I am sorry."

"Thank you," Philip answered.