He came out at last, with Wimpole leading him, and bowed across a glaring barrier of lights at a misty but vociferous audience that was shouting the generous English bravo! and standing up to applaud.  He raised his eyes to the box where Helen sat, and saw her staring down at the tumult, with her hands clasped under her chin.  Her face was colorless, but lit with the excitement of the moment; and he saw that she was crying.

Lady Gower, from behind her, was clapping her hands delightedly.

“But, my dear Helen,” she remonstrated, breathlessly, “you never told me he was so good-looking.”

“Yes,” said Helen, rising abruptly, “he is—­very good-looking.”

She crossed the box to where her cloak was hanging, but instead of taking it down, buried her face in its folds.

“My dear child!” cried Lady Gower, in dismay.  “What is it?  The excitement has been too much for you.”

“No, I am just happy,” sobbed Helen.  “I am just happy for him.”

“We will go and tell him so, then,” said Lady Gower.  “I am sure he would like to hear it from you to-night.”

Philip was standing in the centre of the stage, surrounded by many pretty ladies and elderly men.  Wimpole was hovering over him as though he had claims upon him by the right of discovery.

But when Philip saw Helen, he pushed his way toward her eagerly and took her hand in both of his.

“I am so glad, Phil,” she said.  She felt it all so deeply that she was afraid to say more, but that meant so much to her that she was sure he would understand.

He had planned it very differently.  For a year he had dreamed that, on the first night of his play, there would be a supper, and that he would rise and drink her health, and tell his friends and the world that she was the woman he loved, and that she had agreed to marry him, and that at last he was able, through the success of his play, to make her his wife.

And now they met in a crowd to shake hands, and she went her way with one of her grand ladies, and he was left among a group of chattering strangers.  The great English playwright took him by the hand and in the hearing of all praised him gracefully and kindly.  It did not matter to Philip whether the older playwright believed what he said or not; he knew it was generously meant.

“I envy you this,” the great man was saying.  “Don’t lose any of it, stay and listen to all they have to say.  You will never live through the first night of your first play but once.”

“Yes, I hear them,” said Philip, nervously; “they are all too kind.  But I don’t hear the voice I have been listening for,” he added, in a whisper.  The older man pressed his hand again quickly.  “My dear boy,” he said, “I am sorry.”

“Thank you,” Philip answered.

Within a week he had forgotten the great man’s fine words of praise, but the clasp of his hand he cherished always.