And so it had been. The thing was sight. Even a first-night London theatre audience, attracted by the advertisement of an unusual thing, had seen that. The play as a play was good, but the play as a parable was something more. The clay had touched more eyes than those of the blind beggar that night. When the last curtain fell, it had fallen on a silent house. The weaving of the spell had been complete. Art, poetry, drama and successful staging, all had been there, but the spirit of something more had stolen into the place. Several thousand men and women had looked on truth in its beauty, stripped of the shams and conventionalities of orthodox religion, and the utter loveliness of it had gone straight to their hearts. Of course, the applause had come, had grown, had begun as a breath of relief and had risen to a crescendo of tumult. People had invaded the box. The manager had gestured towards a sea of upturned faces, looking their way. Paul had gone behind, shaken hands with a sudden grateful eagerness with the men and women who had played in his success, and appeared for a moment before the curtain. He had said something, and bowed, and felt suddenly utterly carried away, so that he had waved his hand boyishly and had, apparently, done just the right thing, whatever that was. At present he had no recollection. But even Ursula had been smiling when he rejoined them. "Come on," cried Arnold, "the taxi's waiting and we'll get out of this." "Right," said Paul. "Which way? ... What is it? Lend me a pencil, will you? There, will that do?" Arnold thrust his arm into his. "Look here," he said, "for heaven's sake don't start signing programmes now. On you go, Ursula. We'll follow." The porter in his little box smiled at him. The manager appeared again and smiled at him. ("Oh, I say, don't go. Do stay for supper...." "Thanks awfully, but I've got a show fixed up, I fear. Another night....") A little crowd at the door smiled at him and thrust forward. A policeman even smiled at him, and thrust back. Ursula got in; Paul was vividly aware of the dark night, a muddy street, a yellow flare of light over the way, the tail of a poster: "----AR-MAN," and the gleam of the girl's white opera-cloak. Then he too was in, in the dark confined little space, sitting down by her, fumbling to move her wraps a little, stowing his legs away to make room for Arnold. And then Arnold, lingering momentarily to bid the driver make all speed, was in too, and the door banged, and the first performance was over. "Thank God," said Arnold. "Give me a cigarette, somebody." "Did you see Muriel?" asked Ursula. "She was in front. She waved to me. I took it to mean that she'd go on." "Where's Tressor?" demanded Paul. Arnold laughed. "Hear that, Ursula? Still, I suppose it's excusable. Personally I should have been drunk before this. You're really a marvel, Paul." "What in the world are you talking about? Ursula, do explain."