ain at home,
she walked on to make inquiry concerning Grace's news. Rain had just
begun to fall, and with it descended the smut and grime that darkened
above the houses; the pavement was speedily over-smeared with sticky
mud, and passing vehicles flung splashes in every direction. Odours of
oil and shoddy, and all such things as characterised the town, grew
more pungent under the heavy shower. On reaching the stage-door, Clara
found two or three of her companions just within; the sudden departure
of Miss Walcott had become known to everyone, and at this moment Mr.
Peel was holding a council, to which, as the doorkeeper testified, Miss
Danver had been summoned.

The manager decided to make no public announcement of what had happened
before the hour came for drawing up the curtain. A scrappy rehearsal
for the benefit of Grace Danver and the two or three other ladies who
were affected by the necessary rearrangement went on until the last
possible moment, then Mr. Peel presented himself before the drop and
made a little speech. The gallery was fall of mill-hands; in the pit
was a sprinkling of people; the circles and boxes presented half a
dozen occupants. 'Sudden domestic calamity . . . enforced absence of
the lady who played . . . efficient substitution . . . deep regret, but
confidence in the friendly feeling of audience on this last evening.'

They growled, but in the end applauded the actor-manager, who had
succeeded in delicately hinting that, after all, the great attraction
was still present in his own person. The play went very much as usual,
but those behind the scenes were not allowed to forget that Mr. Peel
was in a furious temper: the ladies noticed with satisfaction that more
than once he glared ominously at Miss Danver, who naturally could not
aid him to make his 'points' as Miss Walcott had accustomed herself to
do. At his final exit, it was observed that he shrugged his shoulders
and muttered a few oaths.

Clara had her familiar part; it was a poor one from every point of
view, and the imbecility of the words she had to speak affected her
to-night with exceptional irritation. Clara always acted in ill-humour.
She despised her audience for their acceptance of the playwright's
claptrap; she felt that she could do better than any of the actresses
entrusted with the more important characters; her imagination was for
ever turning to powerful scenes in plays she had studied privately, and
despair possessed her