He laid aside the diary as the telephone-bell rang.
"Hullo? Good-morning, Eric. Many happy returns of the day!"
"But it isn't my birthday."
"It's our new play, stupid. Are you feeling very nervous?"
"Not in the least. If it's going to be a success, it'll be a success; if it's going to be a failure, my feeling nervous won't help things."
"M'yes. I like you better when you're less philosophical and more human. I suppose you're simply flooded with telegrams and letters of good wishes. Darling, I'm so excited! If it doesn't go well—of course, it isn't a good play; I've never said that, have I?"
"I sometimes wonder whether you'll ever say that of any play I write," he laughed.
"Oh, you will do good work some day. But I thought, after knowing me all these weeks—well, if it doesn't make the most tremendous hit, I shall walk quietly out of the theatre and throw myself into the river."
"I certainly shan't jump in after you."
"Not even for the advertisement? Would you miss me, Eric?"