"Come outside," she whispered.
They walked to a flight of four steps leading through a fire-proof door to the wings.
"Where are you going to?" he asked.
"Sit down; it's quiet here. Now listen carefully: there's only about another twenty minutes, and then they'll want a speech from you. Now, I won't say a word! Just think out a few sentences; don't try to be original or clever; just thank them—the usual thing—as conventional as you can make it." Her solicitous voice trembled and broke. "My own darling, I am so happy to see you happy! I'm so proud of you! Our play! Oh, Eric, thank God for you and all your sweetness to me!"
He looked up with startled eyes, suddenly tired.
"You're an angel, Babs! But you always give me a guilty conscience, when you're like this. I think of the things I might have done and haven't; and I think of the things I have said and done, which I might have spared you."
"Well, go on giving me your love! Why you should talk as if you owed me anything …"
A moment later he was alone, with the memory of her lips still trembling on his. He lighted a cigarette and paced up and down the passage, thinking out his speech. She had left the box-door open, and, as the curtain fell, he took up his position where he could see the house applauding. Loud and continuous, gloriously continuous, came the clapping. The curtain was drawn aside, and the players came forward, one by one. A crescendo of cheers greeted Manders, dying down until he could utter his smiling six sentences of acknowledgement. Then there was a pause. The lights were still lowered. Simultaneously in rasping barks came the call of "Author! Author!"
Barbara turned her head and blew him a kiss with the finger-tips of both hands.
"I suppose I'd better put in an appearance," he drawled, stamping on his cigarette-end. "Don't be offended if I don't look at you, Babs; you'd make me forget all I was going to say."