What nonsense! he told himself; the idea of getting so worked up at hearing his own words sung on a stage!--You fool, replied another voice within him, you know perfectly well that that's not it at all.--Don't tell me, replied the other Harry, the sensible one; such things don't happen, except in books; they don't happen to real people--ME, for instance.--Why not? obstinately inquired the other; why not you, as well as any one else?--Well, I can't stop to argue about it now, the practical Harry answered; I've got to go out and see that people are ready for their cues.
He went out, and found everything running perfectly smoothly. People were standing waiting for their entrances minutes ahead of time, the electricians were at their posts, the make-up people had finished their work, the scene-shifters and property men had put everything in readiness for setting the next scene; no one even asked him a question. He flitted about for a few moments on imaginary errands, asking various people if all was going well; but the real question that he kept asking himself all the time was Is this IT? Is this IT?
"I don't know!" he said at last, loudly and petulantly, and several people turned to see whom he was reproving now.
When he got back to the box he found Madge still singing the last verse of her song. He wondered how many times she had had to repeat it, and hoped Cosgrove was living up to his agreement not to give more than one encore to each song. In reality this was her first encore; his hectic trip behind the scenes had occupied a much shorter time than he supposed. Madge was making a most exquisite piece of work of her little appeal to maternal sympathy; she was actually taking the second verse sitting down, leaning forward with her arms on a table in an attitude of conversational pleading. He had not told her to do that; it was so hard to make effective that he would not have dared to suggest it. When she reached the line, "If heart ever beat in your breast" she suddenly rose, slightly threw back her arms and head, and sang the words on a wholly new note of restrained passion, beautifully dramatic and suggestive. The house burst into applause, but Harry was seized with a fit of unholy mirth at the irony of the situation--Madge, perfectly indifferent, singing those words, while he, their author, consumed with an all-devouring flame, stood stifling his passion in a dark corner. An insane desire seized him to run out to the middle of the stage and shout at the top of his voice "Have pity on me, for I love!" It would be true then. He supposed, however, that people might think it peculiar.