of those calves."

"Don't fear, Wladek, they do not encumber the budget, for Cabinski
has a custom of failing to pay his actors, particularly the young
and pretty ladies."

Thereat they all began laughing.

"Treat us to a whiskey, Director, and I will tell you something,"
Glas began anew.

"Well, what is it?"

"That the manager will treat us to another. . . ."

"My funny sir, your belly grows at the expense of your wit . . . you
are beginning to prate like a fool," remarked Wladek.

"Only for fools . . ." Glas maliciously thrust back at Wladek and
retired behind the scenes.

"John!" came the voice of the director's wife from the veranda.

Cabinski went out to meet her.

She was a tall, stout woman with a face that still retained traces
of great beauty, now carefully preserved with paint; she had coarse
features, large eyes, narrow lips, and a very low forehead. Her
dress was of an exaggerated youthful style and color, so that from
afar she gave the impression of being a young woman.

She was very proud of her director-husband, of her dramatic talent,
and of her children, of which she had four. In real life she was
fond of playing the role of a matron occupied only with her home and
the upbringing of her children, while in truth she was nothing but a
comedienne, both in life and behind the scenes. On the stage she
impersonated dramatic mothers and all the elder, unhappy women,
never understanding her parts, but acting them, nevertheless, with
fervor and pathos.

She was a terror to her servants, to her own children, and to young
actresses whom she suspected of possessing talents. She had a
shrewish temper which she masked before others with an exaggerated
calm and feigned weakness.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" . . . she called, leaning with a careless
attitude on her husband's arm.

The company thronged around her, Majkowska greeting her with an
effusive kiss.

"How charming Madame Directress looks to-day," remarked Glas.

"Your vision must have improved, for the directress always looks
charming!" interposed Wladek.

"How is your health? . . . Yesterday's performance must have taxed
your strength."

"You played superbly! . . . We all stood behind the scenes in rapt
attention."

"The critics were all weeping. I saw Zarski wiping his eyes with his
handkerchief."

"After sneezing . . . he has a bad catarrh," called someone from the
side.

"The public was fascinated and swept off its feet in the