ndulgence on the
faces of the company had gone also. "She'll do!" said one. "She's got the
stuff in her!" said another, but Glory herself was now quaking with fear,
and her troubles were not yet ended.

A little stout gentleman entered hurriedly with a roll of papers in his
hand. He stepped up to Lord Robert, apologized for being late, and mopped
his bald crown and red face. It was Sefton.

"This is to be our manager," said Lord Robert, and Mr. Sefton bobbed his
head, winked with both eyes, and said, "Charmed, I'm sure--charmed!"

Glory could have sunk into the earth for shame, but in a moment she had
realized the crushing truth that when a woman has been insulted in the
deepest place--in her honour--the best she can do is to say nothing
about it.

The company seated themselves around the saloon, and the reading began.
First came the list of characters, with the names of the cast. Glory's
name and character came last, and her nerves throbbed with sudden pain
when the manager read, "and _Gloria_--Miss Glory Quayle."

There was a confused murmur, and then the company composed themselves to
listen. It was Gloria's play. She was rather scandalous. After the first
act Glory thought it was going to be the story of Nell Gwynne in modern
life; after the second, of Lady Hamilton; and after the third, in which
the woman wrecks and ruins the first man in the country, she knew it was
only another version of the Harlot's Progress, and must end as that had
ended.

The actors were watching their own parts, and pointing and punctuating
with significant looks the places where the chances came, but Glory was
overwhelmed with confusion. How was she to play this evil woman? The
poison went to the bone, and to get into the skin of such a creature a
good woman would have to dispossess herself of her very soul. The reading
ended, every member of the company congratulated some other member on the
other's opportunities, and Sefton came up to Glory to ask if she did not
find the play strong and the part magnificent.

"Yes," she said; "but only a bad woman could play that part properly."

"_You'll_ do it, my dear, you'll do it on your own!" he answered gaily,
and she went home perplexed, depressed, beaten down, and ashamed.

A newspaper had been left at the door. It was a second-rate theatrical
journal, still damp from the press. The handwriting on the wrapper was
that of Josephs, and there was a paragraph marked in blue pencil. It
pret