Machin." Edward Henry's first
night was an event of magnitude. And he alone was responsible for it.
His volition alone had brought into being that grand edifice whose
light yellow walls now gleamed in nocturnal mystery under the shimmer
of countless electric bulbs.
"There goes pretty nigh forty thousand pounds of my money!" he
reflected excitedly.
And he reflected:
"After all, I'm somebody."
Then he glanced down Lower Regent Street and saw Sir John Pilgrim's
much larger theatre, now sub-let to a tenant who was also lavish with
displays of radiance. And he reflected that on first nights Sir John
Pilgrim, in addition to doing all that he himself had done, would hold
the great _role_ on the stage throughout the evening. And he admired
the astounding, dazzling energy of such a being, and admitted
ungrudgingly:
"He's somebody too! I wonder what part of the world he's illuminating
just now!"
Edward Henry did not deny to his soul that he was extremely nervous.
He would not and could not face even the bare possibility that the
first play presented at the new theatre might be a failure. He had
meant to witness the production incognito among the crowd in the pit
or in the gallery. But, after visiting the pit a few moments before
the curtain went up, he had been appalled by the hard-hearted levity
of the pit's remarks on things in general.
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