The fact was that Edward Henry had been gently and innocently dozing.  It was in part the deep obscurity of the auditorium, in part his own physical fatigue, and in part the secret nature of poetry that had been responsible for this restful slumber.  He had remained awake without difficulty during the first portion of the act, in which Elsie April—­the orient pearl—­had had a long scene of emotion and tears, played, as Edward Henry thought, magnificently in spite of its inherent ridiculousness; but later, when gentle Haidee had vanished away and the fateful troubadour-messenger had begun to resume her announcements of “The woman appears,” Edward Henry’s soul had miserably yielded to his body and to the temptation of darkness.  The upturned lights and the ringing hosannahs had roused him to a full sense of sin, but he had not quite recovered all his faculties when Marrier startled him.

“Yes, yes!  Of course!  I was coming,” he answered a little petulantly.  But no petulance could impair the beaming optimism on Mr. Harrier’s features.  To judge by those features, Mr. Marrier, in addition to having organized and managed the soiree, might also have written the piece and played every part in it, and founded the Azure Society and built its private theatre.  The hour was Mr. Marrier’s.

Elise April’s dressing-room was small and very thickly populated, and the threshold of it was barred by eager persons who were half in and half out of the room.  Through these Mr. Marrier’s authority forced a way.  The first man Edward Henry recognized in the tumult of bodies was Mr. Rollo Wrissell, whom he had not seen since their meeting at Slossons.

“Mr. Wrissell,” said the glowing Marrier, “let me introduce Mr. Alderman Machin, of the Regent Theatah.”

“Clumsy fool!” thought Edward Henry, and stood as if entranced.

But Mr. Wrissell held out a hand with the perfection of urbane insouciance.

“How d’you do, Mr. Machin?” said he.  “I hope you’ll forgive me for not having followed your advice.”

This was a lesson to Edward Henry.  He learnt that you should never show a wound, and if possible never feel one.  He admitted that in such details of social conduct London might be in advance of the Five Towns, despite the Five Towns’ admirable downrightness.

Lady Woldo was also in the dressing-room, glorious in black.  Her beauty was positively disconcerting, and the more so on this occasion as she was bending over the faded Rose Euclid, who sat in a corner surrounded by a court.  This court, comprising comparatively uncelebrated young women and men, listened with respect to the conversation of the peeress who called Rose “my dear,” the great star-actress, and the now somewhat notorious Five Towns character, Edward Henry Machin.

“Miss April is splendid, isn’t she?” said Edward Henry to Lady Woldo.

“Oh!  My word, yes!” replied Lady Woldo, nicely, warmly, yet with a certain perfunctoriness.  Edward Henry was astonished that everybody was not passionately enthusiastic about the charm of Elsie’s performance.  Then Lady Woldo added:  “But what a part for Miss Euclid!  What a part for her!”