So now George has arrived. He is not nervous in<br />the least. As he gets out of his car, he <br />feels an upsurge of energy, of eagerness for the play to begin. And he walks eagerly, with <br />a springy step, along the gravel path past the Music Building toward the Department <br />office. He is all actor now—an actor on his way up <br />from the dressing room, hastening <br />through the backstage world of props and lamps and <br />stagehands to make his entrance. A <br />veteran, calm and assured, he pauses for a well-measured moment in the doorway of the <br />office and then, boldly, clearly, with the subtly modulated British intonation which his <br />public demands of him, speaks his opening line: "Go<br />od morning!"<br /><br /> And the three secretaries—each one of them a charming and accomplished actress in <br />her own chosen style—recognize him instantly, without even a flicker of doubt, and reply <br />"Good morning!" to him. (There is something religious here, like responses in church—a <br />reaffirmation of faith in the basic American dogma <br />that it is, always, a good morning. <br />Good, despite the Russians and their rockets, and all the ills and worries of the flesh. For <br />of course we know, don't we, that the Russians and <br />the worries are not really real? They <br />can be un-thought and made to vanish. And therefore<br /> the morning can be made to be <br />good. Very well then, it is good.)