in his chair, waiting for the
great star to take up her role.

This she did with a security and repose of manner which thrilled
Douglass in spite of his intimate knowledge of her work at rehearsals.
The subtlety of her reading, the quiet, controlled precision and grace
of her action restored his confidence in her power. "She has them in her
hand. She cannot fail."

The act closed triumphantly, though some among the audience began to
wince. Helen came before the curtain several times, and each time with
eyes that searched for some one, and Douglass knew with definiteness
that she sought her playwright in order that she might share her triumph
with him. But a perverse mood had seized him. "This is all very well,
but wait till the men realize the message of the play," he muttered, and
lifted the programme to hide his face.

A buzz of excited comment rose from below, and though he could not hear
a word beyond the water-boy's call he was able to imagine the comment.

"Why, how lovely! I didn't suppose Helen Merival could do a sweet,
domestic thing like that."

"Isn't her gown exquisite? I've heard she is a dainty dresser in real
life, quite removed from the kind of thing she wears on the stage. I
wish she were not so seclusive. I'd like to know her."

"But do you suppose this is her real self?"

"It must be. She doesn't seem to be acting at all. I must say I prefer
her in her usual parts."

"She's wonderful as _The Baroness_."

"I never let my daughters see her in those dreadful characters--they are
too bold; but they are both here to-night. I understood it was to be
quite a departure."

Douglass, knowing well that Hugh and the manager were searching for him,
sat with face bent low until the lights were again lowered. "Now comes
the first assault. Now we will see them wince."

The second act was distinctly less pleasing to those who sat below him
in the orchestra and dress circle. Applause was still hearty, but it
lacked the fervor of the first act. He could see men turn and whisper to
one another now and then. They laughed, of course, and remarked each to
the other, "Brown, you're getting a 'slat' to-night."

"They are cheering the actress, not the play," observed the author.

The gallery, less sensitive or more genuinely patriotic, thundered on,
applauding the lines as well as the growing power of Helen's
impersonation. Royleston was at last beginning to play, the fumes of his
heavy dinner having cleared a