Robert
thought father would not have been quite so funny about his keeping
his over-coat on if father had known all the truth. And there
Robert was probably right.
When dinner was finished to the last grape and the last paddle in
the finger glasses--for it was a really truly grown-up dinner--the
children were taken to the theatre, guided to a box close to the
stage, and left.
Father's parting words were: 'Now, don't you stir out of this box,
whatever you do. I shall be back before the end of the play. Be
good and you will be happy. Is this zone torrid enough for the
abandonment of great-coats, Bobs? No? Well, then, I should say
you were sickening for something--mumps or measles or thrush or
teething. Goodbye.'
He went, and Robert was at last able to remove his coat, mop his
perspiring brow, and release the crushed and dishevelled Phoenix.
Robert had to arrange his damp hair at the looking-glass at the
back of the box, and the Phoenix had to preen its disordered
feathers for some time before either of them was fit to be seen.
They were very, very early. When the lights went up fully, the
Phoenix, balancing itself on the gilded back of a chair, swayed in
ecstasy.
'How fair a scene is this!' it murmured; 'how far fairer than my
temple! Or have I guessed aright? Have you brought me hither to
lift up my heart with emotions of joyous surprise? Tell me, my
Robert, is it not that this, THIS is my true temple, and the other
was but a humble shrine frequented by outcasts?'
'I don't know about outcasts,' said Robert, 'but you can call this
your temple if you like.
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