"Quite normal, thank you," I said.
"Don't believe it." The sympathetic cadence of George Morgan's voice
removed all effect of brusqueness from his words. "No playwright was
ever normal three hours before the curtain went up on the first night
of her play in New York. Now I'll tell you exactly how you feel."
"Don't," I begged. "I _know_."
"But I must!" my friend's remorseless voice went on. "I've got to show
my insight into the human heart, as you used to say in your convent
days. So here goes. You're sinking into a bottomless pit; you're in a
blue funk; your feet are cold and your head is hot; you're breathing
with difficulty; you're struggling with a desire to take the first
train out of town; you're wondering if you can't go to bed and stay
there. You think no one suspects these things, for you're wearing a
smile that looks as if it had been tacked on; but it's so painful that
your father and mother keep their eyes turned away from it. You're--"
"George, for Heaven's sake--"
"Oh, all right; I merely wanted to show insight and express sympathy.
Having lived through four 'first nights' myself, I know what they
mean. And say, May,"--his gay voice took on a deeper note--"I needn't
tell you that Josephine and I will be going through the whole thing
with you. We've chosen seats in the fifth row of the orchestra,
instead of taking a box, because we both expect to burst into loud
sobs of joy during your speech, and we'll feel less exposed down on
the floor. And, oh yes, wait a minute; your god-daughter insists on
kissing you through the telephone!"
There was an instance's silence; then the breathless little voice of
Maria Annunciata Morgan, aged "four 'n a half, mos' five," according
to herself, came to my ear.
"'Lo, May, oh-h, May, 'lo, May," it gurgled, excitedly.
"Hello, babykins," I said. "Is that a new song you've learned that
you're singing for me?"
"No-o-o." Maria Annunciata's tones showed her scorn for grown-up
denseness. "I was just 'ginning my conversation," she added, with
dignity.