‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I—I don’t think I was paying attention. I don’t know why, but I feel half-asleep.’
‘It’s the reaction,’ said Harcourt, hastily getting into his waistcoat and coat. ‘I feel tired out—if I had my way there should be no such thing as a first night—it’s a most wearing occasion.’
The famous critic turned with a smile.
‘Think of being able to lie in bed to-morrow with a sheaf of newspapers on your counterpane!’ he said pleasantly.
Then somehow, chatting disjointedly, they got out of the theatre. Harcourt and Lucian drove off in a hansom together—they were near neighbours.
‘What do you think?’ asked Lucian, as they drove away.
‘Oh, I think it went all right, as far as one could judge. There was plenty of applause—we shall see what is said to-morrow morning,’ answered Harcourt, with a mighty yawn. ‘They can’t say that it wasn’t magnificently staged,’ he added, with complacency. ‘And everything went like clockwork. I’ll tell you what—I wish I could go to sleep for the next six months!’
‘I believe I feel like that,’ responded Lucian. ‘Well, it is launched, at any rate.’
The old gentleman of the white beard and fur-lined cloak drove off in a private brougham, still nodding and blinking; the actor and the critic, lighting cigars, walked away together, and for some time kept silence.
‘What do you really think?’ said the actor at last. ‘You’re in rather a lucky position, you know, in respect of the fact that the Forum is a weekly and not a daily journal—it gives you more time to make up your mind. But you already have some notion of what your verdict will be?’