rance is in the
night scene in the courtyard, but it would not be empty, and perhaps it
would not be silent either. It was quite likely that a little
encouraging applause for the young _debutante_ would be heard.

Margaret smiled to herself as she thought of that. She would make them
applaud her in real earnest before the curtain went down, not by way of
good-natured encouragement, but whether they would or not. She was very
sure of herself, and the cadaverous maid watched her with curiosity and
admiration, wondering very much whether such pride might not go before
a fall, and end in a violent stage fright. But then, the object of the
dress rehearsal was to guard against the consequences of such a
misfortune. If Margaret could not sing a note at first, it would not
matter to-day, but it would certainly matter a good deal the day after
to-morrow.

When the end of the Introduction was near, Margaret turned back into
the room and sat down before the toilet-table to wait. She heard her
maid shut the door, and the loud music of the full orchestra and chorus
immediately sounded very faint and far away. When she looked round, she
saw that the maid had gone out and that she was quite alone.

In ten minutes the scenery would be changed; five minutes after that,
and her career would have definitely begun. She folded her whitened
hands, leaned back thoughtfully and looked into her own eyes reflected
in the mirror. The world knows very little about the great moments in
artists' lives. It sees the young prima donna step upon the stage for
the first time, smiling in the paint that perhaps hides her deadly
pallor. She is so pretty, so fresh, so ready to sing! Perhaps she looks
even beautiful; at all events, she is radiant, and looks perfectly
happy. The world easily fancies that she has just left her nearest and
dearest, her mother, her sisters, in the flies; that they have come
with her to the boundary of the Play-King's Kingdom, and are waiting to
lead her back to real life when she shall have finished her part in the
pretty illusion.

The reality is different. Sometimes it is a sad and poor reality,
rarely it is tragic; most often it is sordid, uninteresting,
matter-of-fact, possibly vulgar; it is almost surely very much simpler
than romantic people would wish it to be. As likely as not, the young
prima donna is all alone just before going on, as Margaret was, looking
at herself in the glass--this last, for one thing, is a cert