Mr. Daly came tearing over to me, and down he went upon his knee to try to free me, but a muttered "D——n!" told me that he could not find the pins, and the applause, oh, the precious applause that was being wasted out there! Suddenly he rose—tossed that extraordinary hat of his off, picked me up in his arms and carried me like a big property doll to the curtain's side, signaled it up, and, with his arm about me, supported me on to the stage. Oh, but I was proud to stand there with him, for in those days he would not make the simplest speech; would not show himself even. Why, at the banquet of his own giving, he hid behind a big floral piece and made Mr. Oakey Hall speak for him. And yet he had been pleased enough with my work to bring me there himself. I saw his hand upon my shoulder, and suddenly I stooped my head and kissed it, in purest gratitude.
Afterward, when I had been unpinned, as we walked through the entrance together, he said, with a gleeful laugh: "This is the third and greatest, but we share it."
"The third what?" I asked.
"The third surprise," he answered. "First you surprised the town in 'Man and Wife'; second, you surprised me in 'L'Article 47'; now 'Alixe'—the greatest of all—surprises you as well as me!"
He stopped, stepped in front of me and asked: "What do you most wish for?"
I stared at him. He added, "About your home, say?"
And swiftly I made answer: "A writing-desk; why?"
He laughed a little and said: "Good-night, now. Oh, by the way, there's a forfeit against you for not wearing your bustle to-night."
But I was not greatly alarmed or excited—not half so much as I was next day, about four o'clock, when some men drove up and insisted upon leaving in my room a handsome inlaid desk that was taller than I was. At first I protested, but a card, saying that it was "A souvenir of 'Alixe,' from your manager and friend, A. Daly," changed my bearing to one of most unseemly pride.
In the next ten days I wrote I think to every soul I knew, and kept up my diary with vicious exactitude, just for the pleasure of sitting before the lovely desk, that to-day stands in my "den" in the attic. Its mirror-door, is dim and cloudy, its sky-blue velvet writing-leaf faded to a silvery gray, but even so it still remains "A souvenir of 'Alixe,' from A. Daly."