Then he found what he was searching for:  “Regent Theatre.  Production of poetical drama at London’s latest playhouse.”  After all, it was well situated in the paper, on quite an important page, and there was over a column of it.  But in his nervous excitation his eyes had missed it.  His eyes now read it.  Over half of it was given up to a discussion of the Don Juan legend and the significance of the Byronic character of Haidee—­obviously written before the performance.  A description of the plot occupied most of the rest, and a reference to the acting ended it.  “Miss Rose Euclid, in the trying and occasionally beautiful part of Haidee, was all that her admirers could have wished.” ...  “Miss Cunningham distinguished herself by her diction and bearing in the small part of the Messenger.”  The final words were, “The reception was quite favourable.”

“Quite favourable” indeed!  Edward Henry had a chill.  Good heavens, was not the reception ecstatically, madly, foolishly enthusiastic?  “Why!” he exclaimed within, “I never saw such a reception!” It was true, but then he had never seen any other first night.  He was shocked, as well as chilled.  And for this reason:  for weeks past all the newspapers, in their dramatic gossip, had contained highly sympathetic references to his enterprise.  According to the paragraphs, he was a wondrous man, and the theatre was a wondrous house, the best of all possible theatres, and Carlo Trent was a great writer, and Rose Euclid exactly as marvellous as she had been a quarter of a century before, and the prospects of the intellectual-poetic drama in London so favourable as to amount to a certainty of success.  In those columns of dramatic gossip there was no flaw in the theatrical world.  In those columns of dramatic gossip no piece ever failed, though sometimes a piece was withdrawn, regretfully and against the wishes of the public, to make room for another piece.  In those columns of dramatic gossip theatrical managers, actors, and especially actresses, and even authors, were benefactors of society, and therefore they were treated with the deference, the gentleness, the heartfelt sympathy which benefactors of society merit and ought to receive.

The tone of the criticism of the first night was different—­it was subtly, not crudely, different.  But different it was.

The next newspaper said the play was bad and the audience indulgent.  It was very severe on Carlo Trent, and very kind to the players, whom it regarded as good men and women in adversity—­with particular laudations for Miss Rose Euclid and the Messenger.  The next newspaper said the play was a masterpiece—­and would be so hailed in any country but England.  England, however—!  Unfortunately this was a newspaper whose political opinions Edward Henry despised.  The next newspaper praised everything and everybody, and called the reception tumultuously enthusiastic.  And Edward Henry felt as though somebody, mistaking his face for a slice of toast, had spread butter all over it.  Even the paper’s parting assurance that the future of the higher drama in London was now safe beyond question did not remove this delusion of butter.