"Speech! Speech! Speech!" The word came at me from every corner of the theater. My knees steadied. My voice, as I began, sounded natural, even casual. It seemed all at once the simplest matter in the world to say a few words to this wonderful audience, so receptive, so enthusiastic, so friendly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I began. "I shall not try to make a speech. No author should attempt that on a first night. Many are called, and some get up, but very few get over."
I had to stop. These charming people thought that remark was amusing, too, and joyfully applauded it.
"But I am glad of this opportunity," I continued, "to express my deep obligation to our manager, to Miss Merrick, and to the members of the company for all they have done for my play. And in their behalf first, and then in my own, I thank you for the wonderful reception you have given us."
That was all. There was more applause. The lights flashed up, and from every part of the theater the men and women I knew came to me for a few friendly words. The reception took in my little family party and Mr. Morris, whose presence among us seemed to interest but not to surprise the big delegation from the Searchlight.
"Now," I whispered to him, as the curtain rose on the third act, "if only everything goes well for half an hour more! But the least little thing can wreck an act. If some one sneezes—"
"If any one sneezes during this act," whispered Godfrey, firmly, "he'll never sneeze again."
"Perhaps a cat will run across the stage," I whispered, "or some one in the audience will see a mouse."
Godfrey shook his head.
"This isn't that kind of an evening," he declared. "The gods are giving their personal attention to it."