It seemed, indeed, that they were. The act went on as smoothly as silk thread running through a shuttle. We had a few additional moments of celebration at the end of it, when the curtain fell on an audience that wiped its eyes over the penultimate line even while it laughed over the last line. I went "behind" for a word of appreciation to Miss Merrick and the company before I left the theater. The great bulk of "T. B.," our manager, loomed huge in the star's dressing-room.
"Hello, Miss Iverson!" was his jocund greeting. "You can't always go by the enthusiasm of a first-night audience, but I guess we've got a play here that will run a year or two."
He shook hands, said something to Miss Merrick about photographs in the morning, and swung away. Miss Merrick, emotional, almost hysterical, fell upon my neck and kissed me with lips that left round red spots on my cheeks. Every one was happy. At the front entrance some of my friends were waiting. There was still one thing I wanted, had to have, indeed, and I got it after I had torn open half a dozen of my telegrams.
Our love, dear May, and our prayers for your success.
Sister Irmingarde.
I handed the message to Maudie and Kittie, who were with me. They had both been crying; their eyes moistened again.
"Who would have thought all this could happen, when we were school-girls at St. Catharine's!" whispered Maudie. "Do you remember your first play, May—the one we girls put on?" I remembered. I could laugh at that tragedy now.
I heard Godfrey's voice speaking with a sudden masterfulness.
"If you don't mind," he was saying to my father, "I'll send you home in my car and take May for a little spin in the Park in a taxi-cab. I think she needs half an hour of quiet and fresh air."
My father smiled at him.