leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politely
conventional agreement. If Mr. Pilkington was feeling like a too
impulsive seller of gold mines, Freddie's emotions were akin to those
of the Spartan boy with the fox under his vest. Nothing but Winchester
and Magdalen could have produced the smile which, though twisted and
confined entirely to his lips, flashed on to his face and off again at
his hostess' question.

"Oh, rather! Priceless!"

"Wasn't that part an Englishman before?" asked Mrs. Peagrim. "I
thought so. Well, it was a stroke of genius changing it. This
Scotchman is too funny for words. And such an artist!"

Freddie rose shakily. One can stand just so much.

"Think," he mumbled, "I'll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette."

He groped his way to the door.

"I'll come with you, Freddie my boy," said Uncle Chris, who felt an
imperative need of five minutes' respite from Mrs. Peagrim. "Let's get
out into the air for a moment. Uncommonly warm it is here."

Freddie assented. Air was what he felt he wanted most.

Left alone in the box with her nephew, Mrs. Peagrim continued for some
moments in the same vein, innocently twisting the knife in the open
wound. It struck her from time to time that darling Otie was perhaps a
shade unresponsive, but she put this down to the nervous strain
inseparable from a first night of a young author's first play.

"Why," she concluded, "you will make thousands and thousands of
dollars out of this piece. I am sure it is going to be another 'Merry
Widow.'"

"You can't tell from a first night audience," said Mr. Pilkington
sombrely, giving out a piece of theatrical wisdom he had picked up at
rehearsals.

"Oh, but you can. It's so easy to distinguish polite applause from the
real thing. No doubt many of the people down here have friends in the
company or other reasons for seeming to enjoy the play, but look how
the circle and the gallery were enjoying it! You can't tell me that
that was not genuine. They love it. How hard," she proceeded
commiseratingly, "you must have worked, poor boy, during the tour on
the road to improve the piece so much! I never liked to say so before
but even you must agree with me now that that original version of
yours, which was done down at Newport, was the most terrible nonsense!
And how hard the company must have worked too! Otie," cried Mrs.
Peagrim, aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea, "I will tell you
what you must really do.