The curtain rose, and half an hour later Eve knew that Wynne had made good all he boasted he would do—and more. The spirit of the play shone through the lines with a truth of definition that was truly remarkable. The values of the human emotions portrayed were perfect. It was an example of the purest artistry and the surest perception. Not an idea was blurred—not an inflection out of place. Through an infinity of natural detail, rendered with mirrored exactitude, ran the soul and intention of the play, like the dominant theme of a great orchestral fugue. Even the veriest tyro in matters dramatic realized that no mere assembly of actors and actresses, however brilliant, could have achieved so faultless an effect without a master hand to guide them. What Wynne had learnt in the Paris ateliers years before he had set upon the stage. The words of the old Maitre had soaked in: “To we artists the human figure exists in masses of light and shade. It is not made up of legs and hands, and breasts, and ears and teeth. No, by the good God, no!” Wynne had remembered, and here was the distillation of the words. Here was his canvas with its faithful _chiaroscuro_ of life. But of all the people in the house that night only Eve knew the palette whereon the colours had been mixed. One by one she recognized and silently named them, and sometimes she glowed with pride, for many owed their brilliance and their being to herself. “Well done, Wynne! Oh, well done!” she breathed, as the curtain fell. “We are seeing things tonight,” said an important critic as he and a contemporary passed toward the foyer. Eve rose and followed them, and during the interval she moved from group to group and listened to what the audience had to say. There was no doubt Wynne Rendall had come into his own, for although every one praised the play it was his name which came first. “I shall let him off a scathing over the press campaign,” said a representative of one of London’s dailies. “It’s the best production I’ve seen in years.” Eve noticed and recognized from Wynne’s descriptions, some of the tail-lights to the arts. They were busy adding his name to their lists. They were boasting of alleged friendship with him. One of the more venturesome spoke of him familiarly as “old W. R.” A man who leaps from obscurity to initials in a single night is getting a move on. At the final curtain there was an ovation. The author and Wynne responded to “author’s call” together, then, as the applause continued, Wynne came down to the footlights alone. He seemed very collected, and twisted an unlighted cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. For the first time Eve thought he looked young—young and care-free, as though he had stepped into the element he had searched for for so many years. In this new element he moved with an ease and assurance that surprised her. She had thought he would show feverishness or excitement, but there was no trace of either in his bearing.