s tired and cold." Her
voice was soothing, very low. But the gentle tones carried their
message to every one there. The mortal cleverness of such an appeal
struck Duncan sharply, as an onlooker.

The warm-hearted star, Eleanor Forsythe, whose photographs Duncan had
seen hundreds of times, was the first to respond with a half-indignant
protest that SHE wasn't too tired and cold to do that much for the dear
kiddy, and other volunteers rapidly followed suit. Ten minutes later
the still tearful little mother was actually in a cab whirling through
the dark streets toward the hospital where the child lay, and a
rehearsal was in full swing upon the stage of the Colonial. Only the
few actors actually necessary to the scenes in which Mabel figures need
have remained; but a general spirit of sympathetic generosity kept
almost the entire cast. Mr. Penrose, as Triplet, had the brunt of the
dialogue to carry; and he and Margaret, who had quite unaffectedly laid
aside her furs and entered seriously into the work of the evening,
remained after all the others had lingered away, one by one.

Duncan watched from one of the stage boxes, his vague, romantic ideas
of life behind the footlights rather dashed before the three hours of
hard work were over. This was not very thrilling; this had no especial
romantic charm. The draughts, the dust, the wide, icy space of the
stage, the droning voices, the crisp interruptions, the stupid
"business," endlessly repeated, all seemed equally disenchanting. The
stagehands had set the stage for the next day's opening curtain, and
had long ago departed. Duncan was cold, tired, headachy. He began to
realize the edge of a sharp appetite, too; he and Margaret had barely
touched their dinner, back at home those ages ago.

He could have forgiven her, he told himself, bitterly, if this plunge
into her old life had had some little glory in it. If, for instance,
Mrs. Gregory had asked her to play Lady Macbeth or Lady Teazle in
amateur theatricals at home, why one could excuse her for yielding to
the old lure. But this, this secondary part, these commonplace,
friendly actors, this tiring night experience, this eager deference on
her part to every one, this pitiful anxiety to please, where she
should, as Mrs. Carey Coppered, have been proudly commanding and
dictatorial--it was all exasperating and disappointing to the last
degree; it was, he told himself, savagely, only what one might have
expected!

Presently