hing important; the
scene was meaningless to him, lacking what had gone before.

He glanced idly at his programme, indifferently absorbing the
information that "Jules Max has the honour to present Miss Sara Law in
her first and greatest success entitled JOAN THURSDAY--a play in three
acts--"

The audience stirred expectantly; a movement ran through it like the
movement of waters, murmurous, upon a shore. Whitaker's gaze was drawn
to the stage as if by an implacable force. Max shifted on the chair
behind him and said something indistinguishable, in an unnatural tone.

A woman had come upon the stage, suddenly and tempestuously, banging a
door behind her. The audience got the barest glimpse of her profile as,
pausing momentarily, she eyed the other actors. Then, without speaking,
she turned and walked up-stage, her back to the footlights.

Applause broke out like a thunderclap, pealing heavily through the big
auditorium, but the actress showed no consciousness of it. She was
standing before a cheap mirror, removing her hat, arranging her hair
with the typical, unconscious gestures of a weary shop-girl; she was
acting--living the scene, with no time to waste in pandering to her
popularity by bows and set smiles; she remained before the glass,
prolonging the business, until the applause subsided.

Whitaker received an impression as of a tremendous force at work across
the footlights. The woman diffused an effect as of a terrible and
boundless energy under positive control. She was not merely an actress,
not even merely a great actress; she was the very soul of the drama of
to-day.

Beyond this he knew in his heart that she was his wife. Sara Law was the
woman he had married in that sleepy Connecticut town, six years before
that night. He had not yet seen her face clearly, but he _knew_. To find
himself mistaken would have shaken the foundations of his understanding.

Under cover of the applause, he turned to Max.

"Who is that? What is her name?"

"The divine Sara," Max answered, his eyes shining.

"I mean, what is her name off the stage, in private life?"

"The same," Max nodded with conviction; "Sara Law's the only name she's
ever worn in my acquaintance with her."

At that moment, the applause having subsided to such an extent that it
was possible for her to make herself heard, the actress swung round from
the mirror and addressed one of the other players. Her voice was clear,
strong and vibrant, yet sweet;