When the act was over Alexander and Mainhall strolled out into the
corridor. They met a good many acquaintances; Mainhall, indeed, knew
almost every one, and he babbled on incontinently, screwing his small
head about over his high collar. Presently he hailed a tall, bearded
man, grim-browed and rather battered-looking, who had his opera cloak
on his arm and his hat in his hand, and who seemed to be on the point of
leaving the theatre.
"MacConnell, let me introduce Mr. Bartley Alexander. I say! It's going
famously to-night, Mac. And what an audience! You'll never do anything
like this again, mark me. A man writes to the top of his bent only
once."
The playwright gave Mainhall a curious look out of his deep-set faded
eyes and made a wry face. "And have I done anything so fool as that,
now?" he asked.
"That's what I was saying," Mainhall lounged a little nearer and dropped
into a tone even more conspicuously confidential. "And you'll never
bring Hilda out like this again. Dear me, Mac, the girl couldn't
possibly be better, you know."
MacConnell grunted. "She'll do well enough if she keeps her pace and
doesn't go off on us in the middle of the season, as she's more than
like to do."
He nodded curtly and made for the door, dodging acquaintances as he
went.
"Poor old Hugh," Mainhall murmured. "He's hit terribly hard. He's been
wanting to marry Hilda these three years and more. She doesn't take up
with anybody, you know. Irene Burgoyne, one of her family, told me in
confidence that there was a romance somewhere back in the beginning.
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