They, too, added their quota to my cup of pleasure by being distinctly frigid. Ascending to the gallery I found another compliment awaiting me. Tom Blake was fast asleep. The quality of Blake’s intellect was in inverse ratio to that of Mrs. Goodwin. Neither of them appreciated the stuff that suited so well the tastes of the million; and it was consequently quite consistent that while Mrs. Goodwin dozed in spirit Tom Blake should snore in reality. With Hatton and Price I did not come into contact. I noticed, however, that they wore an expression of relief at the enthusiastic reception my play had received. But an encounter with Kit and Malim was altogether charming. They had had some slight quarrel on the way to the theatre, and had found a means of reconciliation in their mutual emotion at the pathos of the first act’s finale. They were now sitting hand in hand telling each other how sorry they were. They congratulated me warmly. A couple of hours more, and the curtain had fallen. The roar, the frenzied scene, the picture of a vast audience, half-mad with excitement—how it all comes back to me. And now, as I sit in this quiet smoking-room of a St. Peter’s Port hotel, I hear again the shout of “Author!” I see myself again stepping forward from the wings. That short appearance of mine, that brief speech behind the footlights fixed my future.... “James Orlebar Cloyster, the plutocratic playwright, to Margaret, only daughter of the late Eugene Grandison Goodwin, LL.D.”