But it was hard to sit still and listen to Tressor. The chief guest of the evening rose to respond to the toast in his slightly heavy way, but he smiled down the disordered table and met the eyes turned to him as if he were no more than an undergraduate himself. He talked of the college and of literature, as he was in duty bound to do; he introduced an anecdote or two; at last he turned slightly to Paul. Well, at any rate, they had reason to hope great things from the president. He might perhaps say there that from the first he had detected in the verses the president had been good enough to show him, the true mark, the real spirit of a poet. He was very grateful for the part he had been able to play in advising and reading, but it was genuine recognition that had led to the acceptance for publication of the book which they all expected so eagerly. It was a first book, and a youthful book, but he was not exaggerating when he said that he looked forward to the day when they would all be proud of having been among the first to recognise the author's undoubted genius and greet his first appearance in print. He anticipated that, in the days to come, they would remember this night with real pride. He thanked the club for having invited him to share in that. They had been good enough to say that they were honoured by his presence, but he assured them that he felt honoured to be there.
They toasted him. They toasted Paul. They toasted each other. Excitement, the toasts, the ring of friendly faces, the hot room, his own achievement—all these things intoxicated Paul. Tressor left. Donaldson proposed a music hall; Paul hardly realised that he agreed. In Leicester Square, people smiled as they tumbled out of their taxis, and the lights were blurred. Paul scarcely knew where he was till he found himself in the stalls.
Then came the gradual awakening. They were too near the footlights for one thing. The orchestra blared and crashed at them, and the solemn, tired faces of the men behind the fiddles began to obsess Paul. They laughed at no jokes, these fellows. They had heard them all a score of times before. There was no honest laughter on the stage, and Donaldson, next him, lolled about and held his sides at a painted travesty of humour. When a turn allowed, these performers crept out by a small black hole and returned presently wiping their lips. Of course, it was, it had to be, a business, but Paul saw it all through innocent eyes. Essential glory had glowed upon him from the sky; genuine tributes had blessed him on Tressor's lips; this began to shape itself as a horrible thing.
The great curtain went up and down inexorably. In the dazzling glow of the searchlights a couple of dancers pirouetted before him, painted, half-naked. His own face flushed; he glanced guiltily round. "By Gad, look at that girl's thighs," whispered Donaldson. Strether was bolt upright, cynical, his lips pursing in a way he had. The light glowed red, shadowed. In and out of the shadows, while the music rose and fell, those white legs twinkled and danced. Now back, now out again. A twirl of short skirts, and in a cascade of white, one throws herself backward in a man's arms. Paul seemed to meet her eyes as she looked out across the footlights, with the powder and rouge on her cheeks and her bosom all but bared. Thunder of applause; smiles, bows, a hand-in-hand appearance in the naked light of the great hall; Donaldson half on his feet, staring; even Judson clapping vigorously.
Paul turned to Manning. "I'm going," he said thickly. "I must, Manning."
The other looked at him closely. "I'll come too," he said, and rose. "I don't want to see any more."
"No, no," said Paul, vehemently, "I'd rather go alone. Do you mind, Manning? I'm all right, only I'd like to walk back."
Manning nodded. "I see," he said. "We'll meet at breakfast. Good-night."
"Oh, I say, damn it all, you can't go, Paul. 'Tisn't done, my dear chap. Eyes in the boat, four! Sit still, sir."
"Shut up," whispered Paul savagely. "Everybody can hear you. Let me get out of this."