Hardiman remained in the box during the second act. He watched the stage
for a while, took note of the laughter which welcomed this or that line,
and of the silence which suddenly enclosed this or that scene from the
rest of the play; and finally, with a certain surprise, and a certain
amusement he fixed his attention upon the play's author. The act ended
in laughter and Hillyard leaned back, and himself laughed, without pose
or affectation, as heartily as any one in the theatre.

"You beat me altogether, my young friend," said Hardiman. "You ought to
be walking up and down the pavement outside in the classical state of
agitation. But you appear to be enjoying the play, as if you never had
seen it before."

"And I haven't," Hillyard returned. "This isn't quite the play which
we have been learning and rehearsing during the last month. Here's
the audience at work, adding a point there, discovering an
interpretation--yes, actually an interpretation--there, bringing into
importance one scene, slipping over the next which we thought more
important--altering it, in fact. Of course," and he returned to his
earlier metaphor, "I know the big fences over which we may come a
cropper. I can see them ahead before we come up to them and know the
danger. We are over two of them, by the way. But on the whole I am more
interested than nervous. It's the first time I have ever been to a first
night, you see."

"Well, upon my word," cried Hardiman, "you are the coolest hand at it I
ever saw." But he could have taken back his words the next moment.

In spite of Hillyard's aloof and disinterested air, the night had