dual liability.
She feared that she would forget her lines, that she might be unable to
master the feeling which she now felt concerning her own movements in
the play. At times she wished that she had never gone into the affair;
at others, she trembled lest she should be paralysed with fear and
stand white and gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire
performance.

In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. That
hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director's criticism.
Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious and determined, if for
nothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie at least. A loafing
professional had been called in to assume the role of Ray, and, while he
was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms
which attack the spirit of those who have never faced an audience. He
swashed about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning
his past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner that
he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere matter of
circumstantial evidence.

"It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stage
voice. "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It's the
spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult."

Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not to
swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must suffer his
fictitious love for the evening.

At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been provided
over and above her care. She had practised her make-up in the morning,
had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by one o'clock,
and had gone home to have a final look at her part, waiting for the
evening to come.

On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her as far
as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores, looking
for some good cigars. The little actress marched nervously into her
dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter of make-up
which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of
Society.

The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and
display, the scattered contents of the make-up box--rouge, pearl
powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eye-lids,
wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery--in short, all the nameless
paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere o