“Are you enjoying it?” Sheila called, her smile including Ellen and Knollys. She was a veritable bit of froth to-night, Sheila, a Dresden shepherdess in a cloud of chiffons.
“It’s splendid!” Ellen answered for them all. “But we want to know about the author, Sheila—Timothy thinks it may be a woman, and——”
“I want to ask Mr. Butler,” said Timothy, looking at the manager, who was absorbed in conversation with Hawley. “You see,” he smiled at Sheila, “I’ve gone quite foolish over this play; it has stirred me so enormously that——”
“Wait until after this second act.” Sheila’s small, frivolous head was bent over an unruly glove-button. “Peter has an announcement to make then, something or other about this author creature, and it might throw some light on what you want to know. I think I’ll go outside for a bit,” she added, as the curtain went up. “One gets so warm—and I’ve seen the play before.”
Ellen and Doromea looked after her. Then they looked at each other. “If only she could be brought to realize herself,” was in their eyes. “Overlooking the big scene in the biggest play of her time because one gets warm—and she has seen it before! Poor Sheila!”
Then the scene was on, and they forgot all about Sheila. Doromea sat close to the box rail, and when once in a while she came to, stole a second to look at Timothy, whose eyes were round and sending out little sparks behind his glasses. Knollys and Ellen sat on the edge of their chairs, oblivious even of each other. But in the back of the box was a man who paid the deepest attention of them all; who watched the stage with only less interest than he ordinarily watched Sheila. His big thumbs held a book, which he followed closely as he followed the play; a conscientious creature, Hawley, though perhaps not like Warren, or Knollys, or Timothy.
When the curtain went down, he sat back and wiped his forehead exhaustedly; though he had come every night, it was always the same. The others were sitting back too, limp with the wonder of the playwright’s conception.
“And now for the announcement.” Timothy drew a long breath.
Peter Butler had come out before the footlights: his clever, shrewd face was very keen. “Playgoers,” he began, slowly, “have certain rights that are all their own; one right is to adore the star, another to hear the author make a speech. This play has been running two weeks now, and still the author has not satisfied the theatregoer’s curiosity about—herself.” He paused a moment to let the revelation sink in—“herself.” “To-night, however, she has decided to break her silence. I will let her tell you why.”
He stepped back into the wings; there was an excited buzz—which grew into an uproar, and cries of “Author!” “Author!” followed each other with an enthusiasm headed by the group in Sheila’s box. They were on the qui vive, impatient, insistent; all except Hawley, who simply sat quietly stolid, like an excellent husband-person.