ed out into the street.

"There," said Dupre, when he returned to his dressing-room, "I hope
you are satisfied now, Lemoine, and if you are, you are the only
satisfied person in the house. I fell perfectly flat, as you
suggested, and you must have seen that the climax of the play fell
flat also."

"Nevertheless," persisted Lemoine stoutly, "it was the true rendition
of the part."

As they were talking, the manager came into their dressing-room. "Good
Heavens, Dupre!" he said, "why did you end the piece in that idiotic
way? What on earth got into you?"

"The knife," said Dupre, flippantly. "It went directly through the
heart, and Lemoine, here, insists that when that happens a man should
fall dead instantly. I did it to please Lemoine."

"But you spoiled your curtain," protested the manager.

"Yes; I knew that would happen, and I told Lemoine so; but he insists
on art for art's sake. You must expostulate with Lemoine; although I
don't mind telling you both frankly that I don't intend to die in that
way again."

"Well, I hope not," replied the manager. "I don't want you to kill the
play as well as yourself, you know, Dupre."

Lemoine, whose face had by this time become restored to its normal
appearance, retorted hotly:

"It all goes to show how we are surrounded and hampered by the
traditions of the stage. The gallery wants to see a man die all over
the place, and so the victim has to scatter the furniture about and
make a fool of himself generally, when he should quietly succumb to a
well-deserved blow. You ask any physician, and he will tell you that
a man stabbed or shot through the heart collapses at once. There is
no jumping-jack business in such a case. He doesn't play at leap-frog
with the chairs and sofas, but sinks instantly to the floor and is
done for."

"Come along, Lemoine," cried Dupre, putting on his coat, "and stop
talking nonsense. True art consists in a judicious blending of the
preconceived ideas of the gallery with the actual facts of the
case. An instantaneous photograph of a trotting horse is doubtless
technically and absolutely correct, yet it is not a true picture of
the animal in motion."

"Then you admit," said Lemoine quickly, "that I am technically correct
in what I state about the result of such a wound?"

"I admit nothing," said Dupre. "I don't believe you are correct in
anything you say about the matter. I suppose the truth is that no two
men die alike under the same circums