"I have seen a great play to-night," he said to the Lion; "nobly played by great players. What will they care for my poor wares? I see that I have been over-bold. But we cannot go back now—not yet."
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and nodded "good-night" to the great world beyond his window. "What fortunes lie with ye, ye lights of London town?" he quoted, smiling. And they heard him close the door of his bedroom, and lock it for the night.
The next morning he bought many geraniums from Prentiss and placed them along the broad cornice that stretched across the front of the house over the shop-window. The flowers made a band of scarlet on either side of the Lion as brilliant as a Tommy's jacket.
"I am trying to propitiate the British Lion by placing flowers before his altar," the American said that morning to a visitor.
"The British public, you mean," said the visitor; "they are each likely to tear you to pieces."
"Yes, I have heard that the pit on the first night of a bad play is something awful," hazarded the American.
"Wait and see," said the visitor.
"Thank you," said the American, meekly.
Everyone who came to the first floor front talked about a play. It seemed to be something of great moment to the American. It was only a bundle of leaves printed in red and black inks and bound in brown paper covers. There were two of them, and the American called them by different names: one was his comedy and one was his tragedy.
"They are both likely to be tragedies," the Lion heard one of the visitors say to another, as they drove away together. "Our young friend takes it too seriously."