“Don’t be too sure, Drexley,” Douglas said, smiling.  “The public must decide, you know.  They may not like it as you do.  A first-night audience takes strange whims sometimes.”

Drexley shook his head.

“Disappointed playwrights may tell you so, but don’t believe it,” he answered.  “A London audience as a rule is absolutely infallible.  But then such a play as this lays itself open to no two opinions.  It is of the best, and the best all can recognise when it is shown them.  To-night will be a great triumph for you.  My congratulations you have already.  Cissy and I together will shout them to you later.”

Douglas laughed.

“Well,” he said, “I believe the play will be a success.  I have had a curious sense with me all day that something pleasant is going to happen.  I feel as though fortune had taken me by the hand.  What does it mean, I wonder?”

Drexley laughed heartily.  He had grown years younger.  Happiness had taken hold of him and he was a changed being.

“A man may doubt his own work sometimes,” he said; “but when he has struck an imperishable and everlasting note of music, well—­he hears it as surely as other people hear it.  Until to-night then, my friend.”

Douglas shook him by the hand.

“There will be some sort of a kickup behind after the show,” he remarked.  “Champagne and sandwiches and a little Royalty.  Remember that I am relying upon you to bring Cicely.”

“We are as likely to forget our own existence,” Drexley laughed.  “For a few hours then, au revoir.”

Douglas walked down the broad street to his rooms, smoking a cigarette and humming an opera tune.  His eyes were bright, his head thrown back; a touch of the Spring seemed to have found its way into his blood, for he was curiously lighthearted.  He let himself in with a latchkey and entered his study for a moment or two, intending to dress early and dine at his club.  On his writing-table were several letters, a couple of cards, and an orange-coloured envelope.  He took the latter into his fingers, hesitated for a moment, and then tore it open.

“GARD DE NORD, PARIS.

“I shall arrive at Dover at eight this evening.  Will you meet me?—­EMILY.”

Then he knew what this curious premonition of coming happiness had meant, and his heart leaped like a boy’s, whilst the colour burned in his cheeks.  She was coming home, coming back to him, the days of her exile were over—­the days of her exile and his probation.  He snatched at a time-table with trembling fingers, called for his servant, ordered a hansom.  He forgot his play, and did not even send a message to the theatre.  A galloping hansom, with the prospect of a half-sovereign fare, seemed to him to crawl to Charing Cross like a snail across a window-pane.  He caught the train—­had he missed it he would have ordered out a special—­and even the express rushing seawards with mails and a full