He knew, however, that, during this last week he must be especially nice
to his mother, and, with an elaborate courtesy and strained attention,
he did his best.
The last night arrived, and, very smart and excited, they went to the
theatre. The boxes had been packed, and stood in a shining and
self-conscious trio in John's bedroom. The new play-box was there, with
its stolid freshness and the black bands at the corners; inside, there
was a multitude of riches, and it was, of course, a symbol of absolute
independence and maturity. John was wearing the new Eton jacket, also a
new white waistcoat; the parting in his hair was straighter than it had
ever been before, his ears were pink. The world seemed a confused
mixture of soap and starch and lights. Piccadilly Circus was a cauldron
of bubbling colour.
His breath came in little gasps, but his face, with its snub nose and
large mouth, was grave and composed; up and down his back little shivers
were running. When the car stopped outside the theatre he gave a little
gulp. His father, who was, for once, moved by the occasion, said an
idiotic thing;
"Excited, my son?"
With his head high he walked ahead of them, trod on a lady's dress,
blushed, heard his father say: "Look where you're going, my boy," heard
May giggle, frowned indignantly, and was conscious of the horrid
pressure of his collar-stud against his throat; arrived, hot, confused,
and very proud, in the dark splendour of the box.
Pages:
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254