The pit did not seem to
be in any way chastened or softened by the fact that a fortune, that
reputations, that careers were at stake. He had fled from the packed
pit. (As for the gallery, he decided that he had already had enough of
the gallery.) He had wandered about corridors, and to and fro in his
own room and in the wings, and even in the basement, as nervous as a
lost cat or an author, and as self-conscious as a criminal who knows
himself to be on the edge of discovery. It was a fact that he could
not look people in the eyes. The reception of the first act had been
fairly amiable, and he had suffered horribly as he listened for the
applause. Catching sight of Carlo Trent in the distance of a passage,
he had positively run away from Carlo Trent. The first _entr'acte_
had seemed to last for about three months. Its nightmarish length had
driven him almost to lunacy. The "feel" of the second act--so far
as it mystically communicated itself to him in his place of
concealment--had been better. And at the second fall of the curtain
the applause had been enthusiastic. Yes, enthusiastic! Curiously, it
was the revulsion caused by this new birth of hope that, while the
third act was being played, had driven him out of the theatre. His
wild hope needed ozone. His breast had to expand in the boundless
prairie of Piccadilly Circus.
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