The common dressing-room appointed for the male members of the chorus was crowded with half-attired men, strangely painted and moustachioed. The low, blackened ceiling beat down the heat from the gas-jets over the dressing-ledges, and the air reeked of stuffiness, tobacco, and yellow soap. Everywhere was a confusion of garments, grease-paints, open bags, beer bottles, and half-emptied glasses. It wanted only five minutes to the rise of the curtain, and hurry prevailed among belated ones, who got in each other’s way and swore lustily.

Joyce had finished dressing. He wore a mandarin’s hat, a green robe, a pigtail, and long, drooping moustaches, like the rest of his companions. Having nothing more to do, he was leaning back against the dressing-table with folded arms, and staring absently in front of him.

“You are looking down in the mouth, old man,” said the man who dressed next to him, turning away from the mirror and buttoning his robe.

“I beg your pardon, McKay?” said Joyce, with a start.

“I asked why you were so blooming cheerful,” answered the other.

“I was only thinking,” said Joyce.

“It seems to be an unpleasant operation, old man.”

“Don’t you see it’s of her?” said another man standing by. “They’re always like that.”

“Perhaps it’s better to put her out of your mind and grin—isn’t it?” retorted Joyce, pointedly, for the railer’s quasi-matrimonial squabbles had already become a byword in the company. McKay burst into a loud laugh, in which those who heard joined, and the railer retired in discomfiture.

“Had him there,” said McKay. “Well, how’s the world, anyway?”

“Oh, all right!” replied Joyce, vaguely.

“Blake and I took his missus and two of the girls for a sail to-day,” said the other. “If the whole crew hadn’t been sick, we should have had a gay old time. Been doing anything?”

“No. What is there to do?”

“At Southpool? Why, there’s no end of things. I wish we went to some more seaside places, late as it is.”

“I don’t think it matters much where we go,” said Joyce. “Life is just the same.”

“I suppose it is, if you moon around by yourself. Why don’t you get a pal?”

“Masculine or feminine?” asked Joyce; for there was as much pairing in the company as in the Ark.

“Whichever you please. You pays—no you don’t—you takes your choice here without paying your money. But take my tip and keep clear of women. You never know when they ’ll turn round and scratch you—like cats. After all, what can you expect of ’em? I ’ve done with ’em all long ago.”

“What about the sea-sick girls to-day?”

“I would n’t touch any of ’em with a ten-foot pole,” replied the misogynist, with bitter scorn. “I never was in an engagement where there was such an inferior lot of ladies. I don’t know where the management picked them up. And to think of the number of nice girls in London simply starving for work.”

“They seem right enough,” said Joyce, indifferently.

“Gad! You should have been with me in ‘Mother Goose’ at Leeds this winter. I was playing one of the men in the moon—they noticed me from the front. You should have seen the slap-up lot we had there. What kind of shop were you in for the winter?”

“I was in another walk of life,” replied Joyce, with a curl of his lips.

At that moment the call-boy’s voice was heard in the passages: “Beginners for the first act;” and then he appeared himself at the door.

“Everybody on the stage.”

They trooped out, up the narrow stairs and along the dusty passages and through the wings on to the stage, where they were met by the ladies of the chorus, who came on from the other side; and then all grouped themselves in their customary attitudes under the stage-manager’s eye. Joyce was posed, second on the left, with a girl resting her head on his knee. He greeted her as she took her place.

“How are you to-night, Miss Stevens?” he whispered.

“Oh, badly. The heat in the dressing-room is awful.”

“So it is in ours. It is a wonder we don’t all melt together in a sticky lump.”

“It is the worst arranged theatre I was ever in.”

“I am sorry,” said Joyce, “you look tired.”

“Hush—the orchestra—”

The curtain rose slowly, revealing the glare of the footlights and the vague cavernous darkness of the auditorium, seen shimmering, as they reclined on the stage, through the band of unbumed gases above the jets.

The opening chorus began with its nodding-mandarin business, followed by eccentric evolutions. Then the tenor came on alone. He jostled Joyce who was standing near the entrance.

“Damn it, don’t take up all the stage,” he muttered irritably under cover of the radiant expression demanded by the business.

He broke into his song, the chorus lining the sides. Then two minor characters appeared, and after some dialogue, interrupted by Chinese exclamations of delight on the part of the chorus, the latter danced off in pairs.

“I do call that cheek,” said Miss Stevens, as soon as they had reached the wings, “why could n’t he look where he was going to?”

“Yes, it was his fault,” said Joyce.

“That’s the way with all these light tenors—simply eaten up with conceit. If I were you I’d give him a piece of my mind and ask him what the something he meant by it.”

“I have n’t enough individuality here to make it worth while,” replied Joyce with a shrug of the shoulders.

The girl did not quite understand, but she caught enough of his drift to perceive that he was not going to retaliate. Possibly she thought him a poor-spirited fellow. “Oh, well—if you like being insulted—” she said, turning away toward a group of girls.

Joyce did not attempt to remonstrate. What did it matter whether a coxcomb had cursed him? What did it matter, either, whether he had fallen in Miss Stevens’s estimation? In fact, what did anything matter, so long as starvation was not staring you in the face, or your companion was not pointing at the trace of black arrows? He turned also and joined in desultory whispering with McKay and Blake. At the end of the first act, men and women went off at different sides to their dressing-rooms. It was only during a wait in the second act that he found himself next to Miss Stevens again.

“Are you going to see me home again tonight after the performance?” she asked.

“If you will allow me,” replied Joyce.

“I’m sorry I was short with you,” she said, awkwardly.

“Oh, it was nothing.”

The polite indifference in his tone rather piqued her. She was naturally a plain, anaemic girl and the heavy make-up of grease-paint did not render her more attractive at close quarters. The knowledge of this irritated her the more.

“You don’t seem to care about anything.”

“I don’t much,” said Joyce.

At that moment the leading lady came off the stage and passed by them as they stood leaning against the iron railings of the staircase. She was wearing the minimum of costume allowed by Celestial etiquette, and looked very fresh and charming.

“Oh, you are Mr. Joyce, aren’t you?” she said, pausing at the top of the stairs; and, as Joyce bowed,—“Some one told me you were a friend of Yvonne Latour’s.”

“Yes,” said Joyce, “I have known her for a very long time.”

“How is she? I have n’t seen her for ages.” She moved down a couple of steps, so Joyce had to lean over the balustrade to reply.

“She’s a dear little creature. I used to know her while she was living with that wretch of a husband of hers,” said the lady, looking up. “He’s dead, or something, is n’t he?”

“Yes, thank goodness,” said Joyce, with more warmth perhaps than he was aware of; for she smiled and replied:—

“You seem to look upon it as a personal favour on the part of Providence.”

“I think it is a personal boon to all Madame Latour’s friends.”

“Oh, I am delighted,” she said, with a touch of raillery. “If ever there was a marriage that ought to have been labelled ‘made in heaven,’ that was one.”

“Yes, it was a very cheap imitation of native goods,” replied Joyce, with a smile.

“Well, if you were going to meet her soon, I should ask you to remember me to her; but as we are on a long tour—”

“I shall be writing shortly,” he interposed.

“Then that will do. Good-night, Mr. Joyce.”

She disappeared down the stairs. When Joyce turned round, he discovered that Miss Stevens had walked off, perhaps in dudgeon at having been neglected. Joyce felt sorry. She was the only girl with whom he cared to be on friendly terms outside the theatre, and who, accordingly, had manifested any interest in his doings. It would be a misfortune if she were offended. Meanwhile the late unexpected chat about Yvonne had been very pleasant. Miss Verrinder had been nice and frank, assuming from the first that he was a gentleman, and could be spoken to without restraint. Joyce felt the fillip to his spirits during the rest of the performance.

When it was over, he dressed as quickly as the crowded confusion of the dressing-room rendered possible, and refusing an invitation on the part of McKay to drink at the adjoining public-house, went down the short street that led to the Parade, where he had arranged to meet Miss Stevens.

She did not keep him long waiting. He relieved her of a bulky parcel she was carrying, and, holding it under his arm, walked gravely by her side.

“I thought you said you were n’t an amateur,” she said suddenly.

“Neither am I. It’s my livelihood.”

“Oh, yes—between you and starvation, I suppose.”

“Just so,” said Joyce.

“Could n’t you do anything else?”

“I can’t get anything else to do.”

“Then how did you manage to come down in the world?”

“How do you know I have come down?” asked Joyce, amused at the catechism.

“Can’t I see you were up once? Miss Verrinder would n’t have talked to you like that if you had n’t belonged to her set. And I have heard of Yvonne Latour. She does n’t make friends with the likes of McKay and me and the rest of us. So you’re either an amateur come for the practice or the fun of the thing, or—”

“It’s hugely funny, I assure you,” he interrupted, “to live in a back-street bedroom—‘lodgings for respectable men’—on thirty shillings a week, and save out of that.”

“Well, then you’ve come a cropper.”

“Really, Miss Stevens,” he replied drily, “it would be rather embarrassing to have to account to you for all my misdeeds.”

“Oh, I don’t want to hear ’em. Not I—I’m not that sort But when I like a man, I like to know just what he is. That’s all. Now my father was a butler, and my mother a housekeeper, and they used to let lodgings in Yarmouth. And they’re dead now, and I shift for myself. Now you know all about me. I think I’d better carry that parcel.”

She was rather defiant. Joyce could not understand her. Surely something more than inconsequent bad taste had prompted her to draw this distinction between their respective origins. But he was too self-centred to speculate deeply upon feminine problems. He hugged the parcel closer, and said:—

“Nonsense. The paper is torn and all the stuff will drop out.”

“Oh, then I must carry it,” she cried, in quite a different tone. But he refused gallantly.

“What’s inside it?” he asked, glad to divert the conversation into less perplexing channels.

“It’s a dress—the one I wear in the third act. Well, you can carry it. My head’s splitting. And I’m ready to drop.”

They had reached the end of the Parade. Their way lay at right angles through the town. It was a gusty, though warm night, and the cloud-racked sky and sea were dimly visible.

“Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?” he asked.

“Would you like it?”

Her white face was turned up earnestly toward his.

“It might do you good,” he replied.

“No,” she said abruptly, after a pause, “Let us get home.”

They walked together in silence. Joyce’s thoughts were far away. He parted from her at the door of her lodgings and went on slowly to his own.

He had accustomed himself quickly to the nomad life on tour, its mechanical regularity despite the weekly change of scene. Once, perhaps, a round like this among the large provincial towns would have been filled with interests. But now it was empty. He tried in vain to whet his dull curiosity, by strolling through the streets and seeking to busy his mind with the industrial or municipal aspects, the art treasures, the historical monuments of the various towns. But all intellectual keenness seemed to have been blunted during those deadening years. His lonely walks were at best but an aimless killing of time. All the towns presented to him the same essential features: one busy thoroughfare, the theatre with its flaring bills, and a poverty-stricken side-street where his bedroom was situated. His life was singularly monotonous. The long hours of the day, given up to lounging in solitude, or reading what cheap literature his means would allow, were succeeded by the uninspiring, almost impersonal work at the theatre. All that was required of him was to sing his parts correctly, and to execute automatically the “business” in which he had been drilled. It was painfully easy. But he doubted within himself whether he had any dramatic aptitude. He could never divest himself of the self-conscious idea that he looked a fool in theatrical garb. The green robe and pigtail gave him the sense of being a spectacle for gods and men. His spirit was too crushed to look upon life humorously. Still, the great anxiety was lifted from his mind. It was a livelihood, secured for an indefinite time. The tour was booked a year ahead, and, as the outset proved “The Diamond Door” to be as great a provincial success as it had been a London one, there seemed no reason against a continuous run for three or four years. In the meantime, he might advance a step or two. But he did not care to contemplate the future. He was thankful for the dull, unruffled present. He was working again among honest men, reckoned as one himself. Could he dare hope for more?

At times he found himself half cynically content with his lot. At others, a yearning rose within him like a great pain to be able to look the world in the face without shrinking from its condemnation. A strange idea began to work in his brain; to win back by some great deed of sacrifice his self-honour and respect. But he knew himself to be a dreamer of dreams, of too sorry stuff for such stern action. He would go whither the wind drifted him. Of this he thought as he walked home after parting with Annie Stevens.

He met her the next morning on the beach, a long way from the town, sitting, a lonely figure upon a great drain-pipe rising half above the sand. She was resting her chin upon her fingers, that grasped a crumpled copy of “Tit-Bits,” and she was looking out to sea. Their eight weeks of pairing on the stage had brought to Joyce a feeling of companionship with her, which he did not have as regards the others. Besides, those who were not either domestic or commonplace, belonged to the flaxen-haired, large-eyed, tawdrily-dressed type so common in the lower ranks of the profession. Miss Stevens had a personality which, though unrefined, was at least her own, and he honestly liked her.

She gave a little start when she was aware of his presence, and a quick flush came into her cheeks. But he did not notice it With a pleasant greeting he sat down by her side and talked of current trifles. At last she broke out suddenly.

“Oh, don’t let’s talk ‘shop.’ I’m sick of the piece and the theatre altogether.”

“Oh, come, it is not so bad,” said Joyce, consolingly. “We both ought to be playing good parts, and having rosier prospects. But things might be very much worse.”

He was feeling brighter this morning. Yvonne had written him a long, gossipy letter, full of encouragement and her own unconscious charm, thus lifting him on a little wave of cheerfulness. With a friend like Yvonne and daily bread, he ought to be thankful. As for Miss Stevens, he did not see what she had particularly to grumble at. If she had been beautiful or talented, she might have had reason to quarrel with her lot.

“Besides,” he added after a pause. “Look what a lovely day it is!”

“So you think we ought to be quite happy?”

“Moderately so.”

She was in a taciturn mood, and did not reply, but turned a little away from him and began to dig the sand with the toe of her boot. Suddenly she said, rather petulantly:—

“I wonder if you could ever love a woman.” He had grown accustomed to her late, discrete methods of conversation, so the question scarcely surprised him. He took off his hat, so as to enjoy the breeze, and rested both hands at his sides on the drain-pipe.

“I suppose I could if I tried,” he said carelessly, “but I’m very much better as I am. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d say something. We were n’t having exactly a rollicking time, you know.”

This time the acerbity in her tone did strike him. Something had gone wrong with her. He bent forward so as to catch a sight of her averted face.

“What is the matter, Miss Stevens?” he asked concernedly. “You are not yourself. Could I be of any service to you?”

She did not reply. Her silence seemed an encouragement to press his sympathy. It was a new thing to be of help to a human being. He put his fingers on her sleeve and added:—

“Tell me.”

She drew away her arm and started to her feet.

“Yes, I will tell you. I ’ve been making a miserable little fool of myself. Let’s go back.”

Joyce rose and walked by her side.

“You are not by any chance embarrassed in money matters?” he asked, in as delicate a tone as he could.

“Money!”

She looked at him incredulously for a moment, then broke into hysterical laughter.

“Money!” she repeated. “Oh, you are too comic for anything!”