. ." he queried. "The most
authentic Philistia; trade-mongers and shoemakers. . . . Perhaps you
think, madame, that they come to hear, and admire the play? Oh,
no! . . . they come here to display their new clothes, have supper,
and kill time. . . ."

"Well then, who does come for the play itself?" she asked.

"In this place, no one. . . . At the Grand Theater and at the
Varieties . . . there, perhaps, you may yet find a group, a very
small group who love art and who come for the sake of art alone. I
have often touched upon that matter in the papers."

"Mr. Editor, let me have a cigarette!" called an actor from behind
the scenes.

"At your service." He handed the actor a silver cigarette-case.

Janina, moving away, gazed with admiration at the writer, delighted
with the opportunity of observing such a man at close range.

How many times in the country while listening to the everlasting
conversations about farming, politics, rainy and clear weather, she
had dreamed of this other world, of people who would discourse to
her of ideals, art, humanity, progress and poetry, and who
impersonated in themselves all those ideals.

"You must not be very long in this company for I have not had the
pleasure of seeing you before . . ."

"I was engaged only to-day."

"Have you appeared elsewhere before?"

"No, never on the real stage. . . . I took part only in amateur
theatricals."

"That is the way nearly all dramatic talent develops. I know . . . I
happen to know . . . Modrzejewska herself often mentioned that fact
to me," he remarked, with a condescending smile.

"Mr. Editor . . . do your duty!" called Kaczkowska, extending her
hands.

The editor buttoned her gloves, kissed each of her hands a few
times, received a slap on the shoulder in reward and retreated to
the curtain where Janina was standing.

"So this is your first appearance in the theater? . . ." he asked.
"No doubt it's a case of the family opposing . . . inflexible
determination on your part . . . the isolation and dullness of the
countryside . . . your first appearance as an amateur . . . stage
fright . . . success . . . the recognition of the divine spark
within yourself . . . your dreams of the real stage . . .
tears . . . sleepless nights . . . a struggle with an adverse
environment . . . finally, consent . . . or perhaps a secret escape
in the night . . . fear . . . anxiety . . . going the rounds of the
directors . . . seeking an engagement . .