heting of a handkerchief.

After the rehearsal Janina boldly approached Cabinski.

"Mr. Director--" she began.

"Ah, it is you, miss? . . . I will accept you. Come to-morrow before
the performance, and we will talk it over. I have not the time now."

"Thank you ever so much, sir!" she answered overjoyed.

"Have you any kind of a voice?"

"A voice?"

"Do you sing?"

"At home I used to sing a little . . . but I do not think I have a
stage voice . . . however, I . . ."

"Only come a little earlier and we shall try you out. . . . I shall
speak to the musical director."

CHAPTER III

The Lazienki Park in Warsaw was athrob with the breath of spring.
The roses bloomed and the jasmines diffused their heavy odor through
the park. It was so quiet and lovely there, that Janina sat for a
few hours near the lake, forgetting everything.

The swans with spreading wings, like white cloudlets, floated over
the azure bosom of the water; the marble statues glowed with
immaculate whiteness; the fresh and luxuriant foliage was like a
vast sea of emerald steeped in golden sunlight; the red blossoms of
the chestnut trees floated down on the ground, the waters and the
lawns, and flickered like rosy sparks among the shadows of the
trees.

The noisy hum of the city reached here in a subdued echo and lost
itself among the bushes.

Janina had come here straight from the theater. What she had seen
disquieted her; she felt within herself a dull pain of disillusionment
and hesitation.

She did not wish to remember anything, but only kept repeating to
herself, "I'm in the theater! . . . I'm in the theater!"

There passed before her mind the figures of her future companions.
Instinctively she felt that in those faces there was nothing
friendly, only, envy and hypocrisy.

Presently she proceeded to her hotel at which she had stopped on the
advice of her fellow-travelers, on the train to Warsaw. It was a
cheap affair on the outskirts of the city and frequented chiefly by
petty farm officials and the actors of small provincial theaters.

She was given a small room on the third floor, with a window looking
out upon the red roofs of the old city, extending in crooked and
irregular lines. It was such an ugly view that, on returning from
Lazienki, with her eyes and soul still full of the green of the
verdure and the golden sunlight, she immediately pulled down the
shades and began to unpack her trunk.

She had not yet had time t