before the
curtain, panting a little and flushed, her eyes dancing and her eager,
nervous little mouth tremulous with excitement.

When Alexander returned to his hotel--he shook Mainhall at the door of
the theatre--he had some supper brought up to his room, and it was late
before he went to bed. He had not thought of Hilda Burgoyne for years;
indeed, he had almost forgotten her. He had last written to her from
Canada, after he first met Winifred, telling her that everything was
changed with him--that he had met a woman whom he would marry if he
could; if he could not, then all the more was everything changed for
him. Hilda had never replied to his letter. He felt guilty and unhappy
about her for a time, but after Winifred promised to marry him he really
forgot Hilda altogether. When he wrote her that everything was changed
for him, he was telling the truth. After he met Winifred Pemberton he
seemed to himself like a different man. One night when he and Winifred
were sitting together on the bridge, he told her that things had
happened while he was studying abroad that he was sorry for,--one thing
in particular,--and he asked her whether she thought she ought to know
about them. She considered a moment and then said "No, I think not,
though I am glad you ask me. You see, one can't be jealous about things
in general; but about particular, definite, personal things,"--here
she had thrown her hands up to his shoulders with a quick, impulsive
gesture--"oh, about those I should be very jealous. I should torture
myself--I couldn't help it." After that it was easy to forget, actually
to forget. He wondered to-night, as he poured his wine, how many times
he had thought of Hilda in the last ten years. He had been in London
more or less, but he had never happened to hear of her. "All the same,"
he lifted his glass, "here's to you, little Hilda. You've made things
come your way, and I never thought you'd do it.

"Of course," he reflected, "she always had that combination of something
homely and sensible, and something utterly wild and daft. But I never
thought she'd do anything. She hadn't much ambition then, and she was
too fond of trifles. She must care about the theatre a great deal more
than she used to. Perhaps she has me to thank for something, after
all. Sometimes a little jolt like that does one good. She was a daft,
generous little thing. I'm glad she's held her own since. After all,
we were awfully young. It was youth an