Hush! the music is beginning.'
I am not going to tell you about the play. As I said before, one
can't tell everything, and no doubt you saw 'The Water Babies'
yourselves. If you did not it was a shame, or, rather, a pity.
What I must tell you is that, though Cyril and Jane and Robert and
Anthea enjoyed it as much as any children possibly could, the
pleasure of the Phoenix was far, far greater than theirs.
'This is indeed my temple,' it said again and again. 'What radiant
rites! And all to do honour to me!'
The songs in the play it took to be hymns in its honour. The
choruses were choric songs in its praise. The electric lights, it
said, were magic torches lighted for its sake, and it was so
charmed with the footlights that the children could hardly persuade
it to sit still. But when the limelight was shown it could contain
its approval no longer. It flapped its golden wings, and cried in
a voice that could be heard all over the theatre:
'Well done, my servants! Ye have my favour and my countenance!'
Little Tom on the stage stopped short in what he was saying. A
deep breath was drawn by hundreds of lungs, every eye in the house
turned to the box where the luckless children cringed, and most
people hissed, or said 'Shish!' or 'Turn them out!'
Then the play went on, and an attendant presently came to the box
and spoke wrathfully.
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