ack-e-r-r-! Where did you
find this Missmiss understudy? Can't you get me people of experience?
I really cannot bear this kind of thing--I can not!" And Potter flung
himself upon the chair, leaving the slight figure in black standing
alone in the centre of the stage. He sprang up again, however,
surprisingly, upon the very instant of despairing collapse. "What do you
mean by this perpetual torture of me?" he wailed at her. "Don't you know
what you did?"

"No, Mr. Potter." She looked at him bravely, but she began to grow red.

"You don't?" he cried incredulously. "You don't know what you did? You
moved! How are they going to get my face if you move? Don't you know
enough to hold a picture and not ruin it by moving?"

"There was a movement written for that cue," she said, a little
tremulously. "The business in the script is, 'Showing that she is
touched by Roderick's nobleness, lifts handkerchief impulsive gesture to
eyes.'"

"Not," he shouted, "not during the SMILE!"

"Oh!" she cried remorsefully. "Have I done that again?"

"'Again!' I don't know how many times you've done it!" He flung his arms
wide, with hands outspread and fingers vibrating. "You do it every time
you get the chance! You do it perpetually! You don't do anything else!
It's all you live for!"

He hurled his manuscript violently at the table, Packer making a
wonderful pick-up catch of it just as it touched the floor.

"That's all!" And the unhappy artist sank into the chair in a crumpled
stupor.

"Ten o'clock to-morrow morning, ladies and gentlemen!" Packer called
immediately, with brisk cheerfulness. "Please notice: to-morrow's
rehearsal is in the morning. Ten o'clock to-morrow morning!"

"Tell the understudy to wait, Packer," said the star abysmally, and
Packer addressed himself to the departing backs of the company:

"Mr. Potter wants to speak to Miss--Miss--"

"Malone," prompted the owner of the name, without resentment.

"Wait a moment, Miss Malone," said Potter, looking up wearily. "Is Mr.
Tinker anywhere about?"

"I'm here, Mr. Potter." Tinker came forward to the orchestra railing.

"I've been thinking about this play, Mr. Tinker," Potter said, shaking
his head despondently. "I don't know about it. I'm very, very doubtful
about it." He peered over Tinker's head, squinting his eyes, and seemed
for the first time to be aware of the playwright's presence. "Oh, are
you there, Mr. Canby? When did you come in?"

"I've been here all th