Their eyes held.
“Yes,” came from him.
“And Frank—”
“Yes, my Elaine—”
“Kiss me.”
[237]
]CHAPTER II
A Kane opening is not an ordinary first night. It happens, at the outside, twice a season at the two most artistic theaters in New York. It is an event as important socially as theatrically. Weeks before, the hum of it is in the air. The public palpitates with anticipation. When Oswald Kane imports a play from Paris, it is the most chic, effervescent and gay the winking eye of Paris has gazed upon. When he produces a period play, he trusts neither to his own imagination nor the costumer’s but enlists the advice of experts and dresses his product with the care of a modiste turning out a woman of fashion. Every member of his casts, down to the most minute part, is selected with an eye to ensemble effect. Sometimes the effect is overdone, a surface glazed too smooth to be startling. But it is never underdone, and the New York first night audience is often hypnotized under the hand of the magician into believing a mediocre piece of work an outstanding masterpiece.
Through the audience that flowed into the Kane Theater on the night of November 5th, like an undulating stream of scented sparkling color, drifted that murmur of eagerness which was breath of life to the famous producer. In it he found all the satisfaction of a woman in her beauty or a painter in the eyes lifted to his canvas. Glitter, the incandescence of anticipation, they were the arclights along the path of his greatness. He stood in [238] ]the wings, a gentle, artistic hand straying through the wavy black hair that fell across his forehead, giving his attention to the final details of to-night’s opening. As the actors assembled he gave each an encouraging word, the last moment stimulus of a faith not always felt.
The mirror in a dressing-room just a few yards beyond Kane’s point of vantage reflected a face mask-like in its immobility. The man before it sat staring at the reflection as if it belonged to another. A shirt open at the neck showed muscles hard and tense. Even make-up could not widen the tight red line of the mouth. The eyes were dulled as if viewed through a curtain. Frank Moore went through his final preparations like a machine correctly set in motion. When the last touch had been given, he walked to the door and listened to the surge of the incoming throng like the song of the sea on a smooth beach.
Suddenly rebellion shook him. What right had they? Pleasure! That was all they cared about. To make of him a puppet, a thing for their amusement! God, what a joke! Those lights, the chatter, the laughter—himself about to stalk on the stage!