, that became a
blur of white that held my eye through the dusk after the curtain rose.

Alice, Montani, and the fan! To this combination I had now to add the
new element introduced into the situation by the apparent familiar
acquaintance of Alice and Mrs. Farnsworth with Cecil Arrowsmith. And
yet, as the play proceeded on its swift-moving course, I reasoned that
there was nothing extraordinary in their knowing the eminent actor. He
had long been a personage in England and had lately been knighted. Their
appearance with him at the theatre really disposed of the idea that they
might be impostors. The presence of Arrowsmith had put zest into the
company, and I hadn't seen a better performance of Searles's play. The
trio in the box joined in the prolonged applause at the end of the act.

As they resumed their talk Alice, it seemed, was relating something of
moment for Arrowsmith's benefit, referring now and then to Mrs.
Farnsworth as though for corroboration. The scene in the box was almost
as interesting as any in the play, and the audience watched with deep
absorption. Alice, the least self-conscious of mortals, was, I knew,
utterly unaware of the curious gaze of the house; whatever she was
saying with an occasional gesture of her gloved hands or a shrug of her
shoulders possessed her completely. I thought she might be telling
Arrowsmith of her adventures at Barton; but the length of her narrative
was against this, and Arrowsmith's attitude was more that of a critic
appealed to for an opinion than of a polite listener to a story. He
nodded his head several times, and finally, as Alice, with a slight dip
of the head and an outward movement of her arms, settled back in her
chair, he patted his hands approvingly.

In my absorption I had forgotten Montani's existence, but as the third
act began I saw that he had gone. Whether I should put myself in Alice's
way as she left the theatre was still an undetermined question when the
play ended. With Montani hanging about I felt a certain obligation to
warn her that he had been watching her. I was among the first to leave,
and in the foyer I met Forsythe, the house manager, who knew me as a
friend of Searles.

"You notice that we're still turning 'em away," he remarked. "We don't
have to worry about this piece; everybody who sees it sends his friends
the next day. Searles hasn't looked in for some time; hope he's writing
a new play?"

"He's West visiting his folks. Don't know