‘Oh, I think it went all right, as far as one could judge. There was plenty of applause--we shall see what is said to-morrow morning,’ answered Harcourt, with a mighty yawn. ‘They can’t say that it wasn’t magnificently staged,’ he added, with complacency. ‘And everything went like clockwork. I’ll tell you what--I wish I could go to sleep for the next six months!’ ‘I believe I feel like that,’ responded Lucian. ‘Well, it is launched, at any rate.’ The old gentleman of the white beard and fur-lined cloak drove off in a private brougham, still nodding and blinking; the actor and the critic, lighting cigars, walked away together, and for some time kept silence. ‘What do you really think?’ said the actor at last. ‘You’re in rather a lucky position, you know, in respect of the fact that the _Forum_ is a weekly and not a daily journal--it gives you more time to make up your mind. But you already have some notion of what your verdict will be?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the critic. He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think we have heard some beautiful poetry, beautifully recited. But I confess to feeling a certain sense of incongruity in the attempt to mingle Greek art with modern stage accessories. I think Damerel’s tragedy will read delightfully--in the study. But I counted several speeches to-night which would run to two and three pages of print, and I saw many people yawn. I fear that others will yawn.’ ‘What would you give it?’ said the actor. ‘The other ran for twelve months.’ ‘This,’ said the critic, ‘may run for one. But I think Harcourt will have to withdraw it within three weeks. I am bearing the yawns in mind.’ CHAPTER XXII