The porter in his little box smiled at him. The manager appeared again and smiled at him. ("Oh, I say, don't go. Do stay for supper...." "Thanks awfully, but I've got a show fixed up, I fear. Another night....") A little crowd at the door smiled at him and thrust forward. A policeman even smiled at him, and thrust back. Ursula got in; Paul was vividly aware of the dark night, a muddy street, a yellow flare of light over the way, the tail of a poster: "——AR-MAN," and the gleam of the girl's white opera-cloak. Then he too was in, in the dark confined little space, sitting down by her, fumbling to move her wraps a little, stowing his legs away to make room for Arnold. And then Arnold, lingering momentarily to bid the driver make all speed, was in too, and the door banged, and the first performance was over.
"Thank God," said Arnold. "Give me a cigarette, somebody."
"Did you see Muriel?" asked Ursula. "She was in front. She waved to me. I took it to mean that she'd go on."
"Where's Tressor?" demanded Paul.
Arnold laughed. "Hear that, Ursula? Still, I suppose it's excusable. Personally I should have been drunk before this. You're really a marvel, Paul."
"What in the world are you talking about? Ursula, do explain."
Her eyes danced at him. "Oh, it's nothing," she said. "We're all of us too excited to talk sense. Paul, isn't it absolutely priceless?"
"I can't tell you what I feel," said Paul.
"Tressor shook hands with you, and said good-night and that he'd clear off, and you were to let him know when you were going down to Fordham," explained Arnold belatedly.
"Oh, yes, so he did. I say, Mortimer did 'Herod' well, didn't he? And d'you know, that finish is good, isn't it? It was wonderful to-night. In the end, it seemed to me that I hadn't written it, hadn't even seen it before."