Mary Whitaker turned her face, shadowy and mystical, touched with her faint and inscrutable smile, up to her husband's.
"Wait," she begged in a whisper. "I want to see"--her breath checked--"the end of it all."
They heard hissings and clickings at the switchboard. The gangway lights vanished in a breath. The single cluster-stand on the stage disappeared--and the house disappeared utterly with its extinguishment. There remained alight only the single dull bulb in the doorman's cubicle.
Whitaker slipped an arm round his wife. She trembled within his embrace.
"Black out," she said in a gentle and regretful voice: "the last exit: Curtain--End of the Play!"
"No," he said in a voice of sublime confidence--"no; it's only the prologue curtain. Now for the play, dear heart ... the real play ... life ... love...."