She did not need now to analyze her feelings.  They were only too evident.  For she could translate what she had just seen as meaning only one thing—­that she had considered Philip’s love so lightly that she had not felt it passing away from her until her neglect had killed it—­until it was too late.  And now that it was too late she felt that without it her life could not go on.  She tried to assure herself that only the fact that she had lost it made it seem invaluable, but this thought did not comfort her—­she was not deceived by it, she knew that at last she cared for him deeply and entirely.  In her distress she blamed herself bitterly, but she also blamed Philip no less bitterly for having failed to wait for her.  “He might have known that I must love him in time,” she repeated to herself again and again.  She was so unhappy that her letter congratulating Philip on his good fortune in having his comedy accepted seemed to him cold and unfeeling, and as his success meant for him only what it meant to her, he was hurt and grievously disappointed.

He accordingly turned the more readily to Marion, whose interest and enthusiasm at the rehearsals of the piece seemed in contrast most friendly and unselfish.  He could not help but compare the attitude of the two girls at this time, when the failure or success of his best work was still undecided.  He felt that as Helen took so little interest in his success he could not dare to trouble her with his anxieties concerning it, and she attributed his silence to his preoccupation and interest in Marion.  So the two grew apart, each misunderstanding the other and each troubled in spirit at the other’s indifference.

The first night of the play justified all that Marion and Wimpole had claimed for it, and was a great personal triumph for the new playwright.  The audience was the typical first-night audience of the class which Charles Wimpole always commanded.  It was brilliant, intelligent, and smart, and it came prepared to be pleased.

From one of the upper stage-boxes Helen and Lady Gower watched the successful progress of the play with an anxiety almost as keen as that of the author.  To Helen it seemed as though the giving of these lines to the public—­these lines which he had so often read to her, and altered to her liking—­was a desecration.  It seemed as though she were losing him indeed—­as though he now belonged to these strange people, all of whom were laughing and applauding his words, from the German Princess in the Royal box to the straight-backed Tommy in the pit.  Instead of the painted scene before her, she saw the birch-trees by the river at home, where he had first read her the speech to which they were now listening so intensely—­the speech in which the hero tells the girl he loves her.  She remembered that at the time she had thought how wonderful it would be if some day some one made such a speech to her—­not Philip, but a man she loved.  And now?  If Philip would only make that speech to her now!