Roger nodded back to John in the darkness. "Yes, yes," he said. He was wondering why he didn't care more deeply at this wreck of his work. He did not care. The yelling mob disgusted him; but not more than any other yelling mob. He wished that it had but one face, so that he might spit in it, and smite it, to avenge brave Miss Hanlon, the genius cried down by the rabble, who still waited, with the sobs choking her. Otherwise, he did not care two straws. He believed in his work. Beauty was worth following whatever the dull ass thought. He sat on the edge of the box, and stared down at his enemies, "the peegs." A rowdy in the stalls, drawing a bow at a venture, shouted "Author." At that instant the curtain came down, and the lights went up. "Author," the house shouted. "Yah. Author. Boo." Women paused in the putting on of their opera-cloaks to level glasses at him. He saw a dozen such. He saw the men staring. He heard one man, one solitary friend, who strove to clap, abruptly told to "chuck it." "Author," came the shout. "Yah. Boo. Author. Gow 'owm."
He stood up to look at his enemies. One man, a critic, was clapping him, an act of courage in such a house. The rest were enjoying the row, or helping it, or hurriedly leaving with timid women. Those who jeered, jeered mostly at John O'Neill, who looked liker an author than his friend (i.e. his hair was longer).
"This is nearly martyrdom," said John. "Your work must be better than I thought."
Roger laughed. The people, seeing the laughter, yelled in frenzy. Falempin came from behind the curtain. He looked at the house indifferently, stroking his white beard, as though debating over a supper menu. He glanced absently at his watch, and tapped in a bored manner with his foot. He was trying to decide whether he should insult the "peegs," and gloriously end his career as a theatre manager. Fear lest they should misunderstand his insult, and perhaps take it as a compliment, restrained him in the end, even more than the thought of what his wife would say. He waited for a lull in the uproar to remark coolly that the play would not go on. After a pause, he told the orchestra to play "God save the King" with excessive fervour, for a long time; which they did, grinning. A few policemen in the pit and gallery directed the religious spirit, thus roused, into peaceful works. The hooters began to pass out of the theatre, laughing and yelling; three or four young men, linking arms, stood across an exit, barring the passage to women. One of them, being struck in the face, showed fight, and was violently flung forth. The others, aiding their leader, fought all down the stairs from the gallery, hindered by the escaping crowd. They suffered in the passage. One of them, with his collar torn off, scuffled on the sidewalk, crying out that he wanted his "'at." He wasn't going without his "'at."
Meanwhile, in the pit, a dozen stalwarts stood by the stalls barrier, waiting to boo the author as he left his box. The stalls were fast emptying. Two attendants, still carrying programmes, halted under Roger's box to say that it was a "shyme." Roger, at the moment, was writing hurriedly on a programme a rough draft of a note of thanks, praise, and sympathy to Miss Hanlon. It was only when he came to use his faculties that he found them scattered by the agitations of the night. The words which rose up in his mind were like words used in dreams; they seemed to be meaningless. He botched together a crudity after a long beating of his brains; but the result, when written out on a sheet of notepaper, found in the ante-room, was feeble enough.
He twisted the paper swiftly into a tricorne. "Come along, John," he said. "We'll go through the stage; I must leave this for Miss Hanlon."
They passed through the ante-room into a chamber heaped with properties, and thence, by a swift turn, on to the stage, where a few hands were shifting the scenery and talking of the row. On the draughty, zig-zag, concrete stairs, leading to the dressing-rooms, the stage-manager stood talking to a minor actor under a wavering gas-jet enclosed by a wire mesh.
"Quite a little trouble, sir," he said to Naldrett. "Too bad."
"They didn't seem to like it, did they? Which is Miss Hanlon's room?"
"In number three, sir; but there's her dresser, if you've a note for her, sir. There's some ladies with her."