housand pounds of my money!" he
reflected excitedly.

And he reflected:

"After all, I'm somebody."

Then he glanced down Lower Regent Street and saw Sir John Pilgrim's
much larger theatre, now sub-let to a tenant who was also lavish with
displays of radiance. And he reflected that on first nights Sir John
Pilgrim, in addition to doing all that he himself had done, would hold
the great _role_ on the stage throughout the evening. And he admired
the astounding, dazzling energy of such a being, and admitted
ungrudgingly:

"He's somebody too! I wonder what part of the world he's illuminating
just now!"

Edward Henry did not deny to his soul that he was extremely nervous.
He would not and could not face even the bare possibility that the
first play presented at the new theatre might be a failure. He had
meant to witness the production incognito among the crowd in the pit
or in the gallery. But, after visiting the pit a few moments before
the curtain went up, he had been appalled by the hard-hearted levity
of the pit's remarks on things in general. The pit did not seem to
be in any way chastened or softened by the fact that a fortune, that
reputations, that careers were at stake. He had fled from the packed
pit. (As for the gallery, he decided that he had already had enough of
the gallery.) He had wandered about corridors, and to and fro in his
own room and in the wings, and even in the basement, as nervous as a
lost cat or an author, and as self-conscious as a criminal who knows
himself to be on the edge of discovery. It was a fact that he could
not look people in the eyes. The reception of the first act had been
fairly amiable, and he had suffered horribly as he listened for the
applause. Catching sight of Carlo Trent in the distance of a passage,
he had positively run away from Carlo Trent. The first _entr'acte_
had seemed to last for about three months. Its nightmarish length had
driven him almost to lunacy. The "feel" of the second act--so far
as it mystically communicated itself to him in his place of
concealment--had been better. And at the second fall of the curtain
the applause had been enthusiastic. Yes, enthusiastic! Curiously, it
was the revulsion caused by this new birth of hope that, while the
third act was being played, had driven him out of the theatre. His
wild hope needed ozone. His breast had to expand in the boundless
prairie of Piccadilly Circus. His legs had to walk. His arms had to
swing.

Now