Back there they were not taking it as humorously as he had expected. Phil came off the stage in a fit of hysteria and everyone was comforting him. The place was in a mess: everyone was indulging in the luxury of indignation, and Teddy leaped into the middle of it until the stage-manager extricated him and sent him forth to calm down the performers. Bob was the most militant: he was all for sending the Pearsons out of town by official order from the Mayor.
“I can see the humour of it as quickly as anyone can, my dear boy,” he explained to Teddy, “but damn it, we must protect the colony. What’s to happen to free speech and all that if we allow the bigots to criticize us?”
“I’ll start circulating a petition tomorrow,” said Gwen. “Teddy, remind me of it in the morning.”
“Teddy,” said the stage-manager, “see if you can’t make the property men get down to work. I promised the undertaker that he can have the chairs back in time for a bridge party tomorrow.”
“That reminds me,” Mrs. Saville-Sanders said, “that I want to talk to you when you have a moment to spare, Teddy.”
Phil plucked at his arm and asked him feebly if it would be wise to bring action for libel. Bob thought that it would, and walked off with him, saying, “I’ll give you the address of my attorney in Albuquerque.”
“Before I forget,” Mrs. Saville-Sanders persisted, “I want to ask you to be sure to come to my bridge on the eleventh, Teddy. Don’t forget, will you? I shall count on you. And I wanted to say that you’ve been a dear boy and a great help tonight. I don’t know what we should have done without you.” She turned to Bob, who had come back. “That’s a nice boy,” she added.
His heart bounded in triumph. The accolade at last!
“Teddy! Come here a minute, will you? Someone has got to help me pack up the costumes.”
He ran gaily to obey the last order of the evening. All was well. His face was as the face of Wellington after Waterloo.