From one of the upper stage-boxes Helen and Lady Gower watched the successful progress of the play with an anxiety almost as keen as that of the author. To Helen it seemed as though the giving of these lines to the public--these lines which he had so often read to her, and altered to her liking--was a desecration. It seemed as though she were losing him indeed--as though he now belonged to these strange people, all of whom were laughing and applauding his words, from the German Princess in the Royal box to the straight-backed Tommy in the pit. Instead of the painted scene before her, she saw the birch-trees by the river at home, where he had first read her the speech to which they were now listening so intensely--the speech in which the hero tells the girl he loves her. She remembered that at the time she had thought how wonderful it would be if some day some one made such a speech to her--not Philip--but a man she loved. And now? If Philip would only make that speech to her now! 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.