eturned to torture him.
Reel after reel of the ignoble stuff, spawned by the miscreant, Baird,
flashed before him; a world of base painted shadows in which he had been
the arch offender.

Again and again he tried to make clear to himself just why his own
acting should have caused mirth. Surely he had been serious; he had
given the best that was in him.

And the groundlings had guffawed!

Perhaps it was a puzzle he could never solve. And now he first thought
of the new piece.

This threw him into fresh panic. What awful things, with his high and
serious acting, would he have been made to do in that? Patiently, one by
one, he went over the scenes in which he had appeared. Dazed, confused,
his recollection could bring to him little that was ambiguous in them.
But also he had played through Hearts on Fire with little suspicion of
its low intentions.

He went to bed at last, though to toss another hour in fruitless effort
to solve this puzzle and to free his eyes of those flashing infamies of
the night. Ever and again as he seemed to become composed, free at last
of tormenting visions, a mere subtitle would flash in his brain, as
where the old mother, when he first punished her insulter, was made by
the screen to call out, "Kick him on the knee-cap, too!"

But the darkness refreshed his tired eyes, and sun at last brought him a
merciful outlet from a world in which you could act your best and still
be funnier than a cross-eyed man.

He awakened long past his usual hour and occupied his first conscious
moments in convincing himself that the scandal of the night before
had not been a bad dream. The shock was a little dulled now. He began
absurdly to remember the comments of those who had appeared to enjoy the
unworthy entertainment. Undoubtedly many people had mentioned him with
warm approval. But such praise was surely nothing to take comfort from.
He was aroused from this retrospection by a knock on his door. It proved
to be Mr. Patterson bearing a tray. "Mrs. P. thought that you being
up so late last night mebbe would like a cup of coffee and a bite of
something before you went out." The man's manner was newly respectful.
In this house, at least, Merton Gill was still someone.

He thanked his host, and consumed the coffee and toast with a novel
sense of importance. The courtesy was unprecedented. Mrs. Patterson
had indeed been sincere. And scarcely had he finished dressing when Mr.
Patterson was again at the door.