It was as though they recognized in one another a fundamental and glorious worth; it was as though no words could ever express the depth of appreciation, affection and admiration which each intensely felt for the other; it was as though this moment were the final consecration of twin-lives whose long, loyal comradeship had never been clouded by the faintest breath of mutual suspicion.  Rose Euclid was still the unparalleled star, the image of grace and beauty and dominance upon the stage.  And yet quite clearly Edward Henry saw close to his the wrinkled, damaged, daubed face and thin neck of an old woman; and it made no difference.

“Rose!” cried a strained voice, and Rose Euclid wrenched herself from him and tumbled with half a sob into the clasping arms of Elsie April.

“You’ve saved the intellectual theatah for London, my boy!  That’s what you’ve done!” Marrier now was gripping his hand.  And Edward Henry was convinced that he had.

The strident vigour of the applause showed no diminution.  And through the thick, heavy rain of it could be heard the monotonous, insistent detonations of one syllable: 

“’Thor!  ’Thor!  ’Thor!  ’Thor!  ’Thor!”

And then another syllable was added: 

“Speech!  Speech!  Speech!  Speech!”

Mechanically Edward Henry lit a cigarette.  He had no consciousness of doing so.

“Where is Trent?” people were asking.

Carlo Trent appeared up a staircase at the back of the stage.

“You’ve got to go on,” said Marrier.  “Now, pull yourself together.  The Great Beast is calling for you.  Say a few wahds.”

Carlo Trent in his turn seized the hand of Edward Henry, and it was for all the world as though he were seizing the hand of an intellectual and poetic equal, and wrung it.

“Come now!” Mr. Marrier, beaming, admonished him, and then pushed.

“What must I say?” stammered Carlo.

“Whatever comes into your head.”

“All right!  I’ll say something.”

A man in a dirty white apron drew back the heavy mass of the curtain about eighteen inches, and Carlo Trent stepping forward, the glare of the footlights suddenly lit his white face.  The applause, now multiplied fivefold and become deafening, seemed to beat him back against the curtain.  His lips worked.  He did not bow.

“Cam back, you fool!” whispered Marrier.

And Carlo Trent stepped back into safe shelter.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I c-couldn’t,” murmured weakly the greatest dramatic poet in the world, and began to cry.

“Speech!  Speech!  Speech!  Speech!”

“Here!” said Edward Henry, gruffly.  “Get out of my way!  I’ll settle ’em!  Get out of my way!” And he riddled Carlo Trent with a fusillade of savagely scornful glances.