how, she suffered, poor thing. Women like her always
do, I think." She rose slowly. "I may as well go and dress. I suppose we
shall be here till midnight."

The orchestra struck up.

"Anyhow, she suffered."

The violins caught up the words and dinned them over and over again into
Marion's ears. Women like Maggie, women with deep hearts like
herself--for was not Maggie herself?--they always suffered, always
suffered, always!--said the violins.

The manager suddenly appeared in front of the curtain and walked swiftly
over the little bridge from the stage to the stalls. He was a small,
sturdy, thin-lipped, choleric man, who looked as if he were made up of
energy; energy distilled and bottled. Some one had said of him that his
hat was really a glass stopper, which might fly off at any moment.

It was off now. There had evidently been an explosion. He held a note in
his hand.

"Montgomery has given up the part," he said. "He was odd at rehearsal
yesterday. I felt there was something wrong. He said he had no show. Now
he says he's too ill to come--bronchitis."

The sense of disaster which had been hanging over Marion all day slipped
and engulfed her like an avalanche. She felt paralysed.

"Then the play can't go on?" she said.

"If it had to happen, better to-night than to-morrow night," said the
manager. "Montgomery is as slippery as an eel. I don't suppose he has
got bronchitis; but I have no doubt if I rushed over there at this
moment, I should find him in bed with a steam-kettle. He would play the
part."

"What will you do?" gasped Marion.

"Do?" he said. "Do? There's only one thing to do. Go through with the
play! It will start in two minutes, and we shall see what the understudy
can make of it. He's as clever as he can stick, and he's word perfect,
at any rate."

"Who is he?"

"A Mr. Delacour; at least, that's his stage name. He's been in America
for the last five years. Clever enough, but a rolling stone. He's not to
be depended on, poor devil; but it's Hobson's choice--we've got to
depend on him."

The manager sat down beside her and clapped his hands.

The lights suddenly burned up behind the curtain, the curtain rose and
the play began.

Some plays, some books, some men and women, possess a mysterious force
which, for lack of a better word, we call vitality. Those who possess it
not call it by all manner of ugly names. But, nevertheless, it is the
great gift, the power that overcomes, which mak