"I'm almost sure to at first," he answered with a laugh. "Babs, I've got to get up now——"
"Don't you dare to ring me off, Eric! I want to know about to-night."
"Scott's at seven."
"And what dress would you like me to wear?"
He pondered over the familiar ritual.
"The one I always call the 'fairy queen,' I think."
"Well, say 'please.'"
"'Please.' I must get up now, or I shall be late at the office. Good-bye, Babs darling."
"Good-bye, sweetheart."
They dined with unnecessary haste. For all his philosophy, Eric's nervousness shewed itself in over-frequent consultation of his watch, and they entered their box before the stalls were half-full. Barbara sat forward, bowing to friends in the familiar, first-night gathering; but he preferred to stand at her side, hidden by a curtain, while she called back the names of the new arrivals. This was a greater ordeal than the evening when his first play was produced, for he was known now, and the critics would judge him by the success and standard of the earlier play; instead of a handful of old colleagues, he was now on nodding terms with a third of the audience; it was a personal trial, and he did not want to fail under their eyes; most of all he did not want to fail before Barbara.