Sir T. Back to the forest, then.—What is it, Hildreth?
Hildreth. St. James's triumphs.
Sir T. And without offence?
No protest?
Hildreth. None. A section seemed at first
In tune for ribaldry; but soon his clear
Goodwill, the nerve and music of his voice,
His gracious looks and speech secured the house.
The gallery points his periods with applause;
The stalls sit purring like a catshow charmed
With extra cream or chin adroitly scratched;
And women from the boxes lean and listen
Like cows across a gate at milking-time.
Sir T. The house is fused then?
Hildreth. Mob at once, well pleased
With anything.
Sir T. And well begun's half done!
The prologue's over?
Hildreth. No. I meant to note
The finish; but Europa Troop despatched
Immediate news. She said——
[Re-enter Europa Troop.]
Europa. Too soon, too soon!
Oh, Tristram!—Pardon, madam—Applause has whirled
St. James's to the skies. He stands entranced,
With face uplifted like a seraph, pealing
Material music, from his prologue worlds
Away. Into the nebula! The house
Sits up and holds its breath.