‘This is indeed my temple,’ it said again and again. ‘What radiant rites! And all to do honour to me!’
The songs in the play it took to be hymns in its honour. The choruses were choric songs in its praise. The electric lights, it said, were magic torches lighted for its sake, and it was so charmed with the footlights that the children could hardly persuade it to sit still. But when the limelight was shown it could contain its approval no longer. It flapped its golden wings, and cried in a voice that could be heard all over the theatre:
‘Well done, my servants! Ye have my favour and my countenance!’
Little Tom on the stage stopped short in what he was saying. A deep breath was drawn by hundreds of lungs, every eye in the house turned to the box where the luckless children cringed, and most people hissed, or said ‘Shish!’ or ‘Turn them out!’
Then the play went on, and an attendant presently came to the box and spoke wrathfully.
‘It wasn’t us, indeed it wasn’t,’ said Anthea, earnestly; ‘it was the bird.’
The man said well, then, they must keep their bird very quiet. ‘Disturbing every one like this,’ he said.
‘It won’t do it again,’ said Robert, glancing imploringly at the golden bird; ‘I’m sure it won’t.’
‘You have my leave to depart,’ said the Phoenix gently.
‘Well, he is a beauty, and no mistake,’ said the attendant, ‘only I’d cover him up during the acts. It upsets the performance.’