Then he closed the book and laid his hand upon it—his eyes filled with the light of triumph.
“What did you think of it, Annie?” demanded Mrs. Wattle, when she and her niece were restored to the kitchen.
“Be-utiful, be-utiful,” replied Annie. “It was just like any drama you might see on the stage.”
There was no intended satire in this truest of criticisms.
The reading had proved altogether too much for Sefton Bulmore, and being so elevated by the marvels of their achievement, he went forth and indulged in a debauch, beside which his previous excesses were as child’s play.
Eliphalet sat alone with the glory he had created. He turned his eyes to the level of the gods, and prayed aloud.
“Be pleased to bless our work, O Lord!”
Then a cold tremor crept down his spine—brought to existence by the sight of an unopened letter leaning against the clock. He knew what it was—a statement of credit from the bank—and had delayed breaking the seal, until the play should be finished, lest, perhaps, the tidings should divert his attention from the final scene. But now that reason no longer existed. So he rose and tore open the envelope.
Fifty-seven pounds was all that was left between two old men and starvation. Almost miraculously the rest had melted away. Fifty-seven pounds—and the Play.
“AND the play, old boy,” said Eliphalet. He tore the sheet in two and dropped it in the fire; then, picking up the manuscript, made his way to bed.