"It must be," he said, smiling.
The orchestra glided into a slow movement and the curtain rose. I need not tell you the story of the play; it was simple, but intensely human, having in it the philosophy learnt in years of struggle, but always with hope and faith in the ultimate good beyond. It presented no problem of the gutter raised to drawing-room standard by meretricious gilding; it had the singular distinction of being perfectly clean and also entirely dramatic. As Annesley saw his work develop before his eyes, and felt how it was taking hold of a breathless audience, he did not grudge the experience that had gone to its making or regret that he had kept his ideals unsoiled. When the curtain fell upon the first act the clamour of applause was the true expression of genuine emotion aroused by legitimate means. Annesley felt weak and almost sick. He realised vividly what it all meant to him; he realised, above all, of what little value it would be if he failed in the greater matter of his love. Connie leaned towards him; she had tears in her eyes.
"THE MANAGER WAS SIMMERING WITH JOY."
"This is the kind of thing we've been waiting for," she said. "This is quite true and human. Conrad Howe should be a happy man to-night."
"If he is in the house."
"I hope he is; there's sure to be a call." Annesley's heart thumped.
"That must be awfully trying to a man," he said.
"Why don't you write plays of this kind?"
"It's rather the sort of thing I've been aiming at."