Val could have laughed aloud as he imagined the old self of a few weeks since—the young and popular officer-in-the-Guards self—obeying the beckoning finger of such a man. But he walked towards it like a lamb, and was introduced to Mrs. Jacobus (Miss Moon) and Miss de Lisle.

As Star of the company, Miss de Lisle ought of course to have come first, but Miss Moon, the heavy lead ("heavy" in more senses than one) was not a lady to submit to such distinctions.

She would probably have said that Lillie de Lisle was a star only because it suited the convenience of Mr. and Mrs. Jacobus to head the troupe, financed by their money, with a pretty enough little soubrette, likely to take the popular fancy.

Miss Moon's first sweeping glance at the newcomer was one of self-conscious, important condescension; but seeing that he was an extremely handsome, well dressed young man, with an air and an appearance widely different from the tenth-rate actors of her acquaintance, past and present, her face and manner changed. Instead of posing as the manager's wife, she set herself to vie with Lillie de Lisle in youthful charm, as she sent forth a radiant, long-lashed look to fascinate Mr. Perceval Gordon.

She was a big woman of forty-two or three, with the splendid ruin of what had been a fine figure, an erectness of head which partly concealed the existence of a double chin, a complexion spoiled by a love of rich food and constant use of powder, singularly wide-open dark eyes fringed with painted lashes, and a good deal of bright crimson hair edged with rusty brown at the roots.

Beside Miss Moon, Bill's "little gal" looked like a tiny fishing boat bobbing under the lee of a large schooner; but she was a pretty creature whose curly hair was naturally almost as golden as it glittered, grey-blue eyes which ought to have been mischievous and merry, but were anxious, a clear, rather freckled white skin, and the piquant nose and innocent smile of a child.

These ladies were not dressed as tidily as their best friends might have wished, but Loveland had grown used to Isidora, and did not pick flaws lightly. They were both very cordial to him, somewhat—it would have seemed—to Mr. Jacobus's contemptuous annoyance; and then, at Miss Moon's suggestion, Ed Binney introduced Mr. Gordon, across and down the length of the table, to all the other members of the company.

There were a few non-theatrical diners in the room, commercial travellers, apparently; but they were at the far end of the table, and were not addressed, though they were on nodding acquaintance with several of the actors and actresses.

The latter were two in number besides Miss de Lisle and Mrs. Jacobus. Miss Ruby St. Clare, whose mission was to act small parts, and play the piano, was of the startled fawn order of young female, evidently not long out of amateurhood; and Mrs. Winter, who had passed the age when it was necessary to preserve her maiden name for programmes. She was a reserved and suspicious-looking woman, who watched her husband with short, sidelong glances of anxiety either for his conduct or his health. As for him, he was a thin, dejected, grey little man who suffered apparently from a broken heart or a shattered digestion. His lips worked, and the lids of his eyes, which winked almost continually, were red-rimmed. He seemed acutely conscious of Mrs. Winter's constant scrutiny.

The remaining male members of the company were Mrs. Jacobus's two sons, Tom and Bob Eccles. They were between twenty and twenty-five, and like their mother, though one was fat, with the lazy smile of a Buddha, and the other, who through a cast in his eye just missed being handsome, inclined to be truculent.

Loveland had intended to take a chair next his room-mate, but Miss Moon made a place for him between herself and Buddha—smiling Bob. As everybody except Jack Jacobus and the Winters talked and joked continually, it was surprising how fast they ate. The corned beef and cabbage, the onions, and the tinned American corn which, with other eatables and uneatables, surrounded their plates in a wreath of little earthenware dishes, disappeared as if by conjuring, to be swiftly replaced by apple-pie and cheese that magically vanished from the face of the table in their turn. Nearly everyone drank large cupfuls of milky coffee with their dinner; and twenty minutes after beginning the meal, all had finished, with the exception of Loveland, who was not accustomed to giving his food such short shrift. He rose with the others, however, and a few moments later the company was straggling in a procession to the theatre.

But after all, it was not a theatre, and even courtesy gave it no more high sounding name than "hall." It stood at the end of Main Street, its brick front wall plastered with wonderful coloured posters representing the most sensational scenes in the Human Flower's repertoire. To reach the stage it was necessary to mount a long, mud-caked staircase, and to pass through the auditorium. As for dressing rooms, they did not exist, for it had been a second thought of some light-minded town council, to turn the hall into a place where theatrical representations might lawfully be produced: but a space on either side of the stage had been curtained off with sheets, shawls and squares of canvas, ingeniously coaxed to hold together. These screens reached unevenly from twenty-four to twelve inches of the floor, and at worst an actor in dressing himself could be seen no higher than the knees—unless, perhaps, a too bright light behind the partition might reveal his whole person en silhouette.

Loveland was anxious to talk with the Star about her old friend—if not love—Bill Willing; and he had hoped on starting to walk by her side; but Miss Moon, seeing his desire, had instantly frustrated it by calling him and beginning to talk of the part he was about to rehearse. As old "Dave Dreadnought," he was supposed to curse her with menaces, and he felt that it would not be difficult to do so realistically, even in the character of Loveland; but he contrived to listen politely, if coldly, to the story of her first marriage at the early age of fifteen. "I'm not quite sixteen years older than my eldest son, who is over twenty now," she said, and did not look pleased when the juvenile lead found no more tactful comment than an absent-minded "Is it possible?"

On the stage he received the short MS. part of Dave Dreadnought, which Mr. Jacobus had not after all been able to unearth before, and was allowed to glance it over while the scene of his "dying curse" was being set. He was too inexperienced to remember what in gay, amateur days he had learned of stage directions, and Jacobus was inclined to be sarcastic at his expense; but both Miss Moon and Miss de Lisle, as well as Ed Binney, befriended him, whispering hurriedly what "down centre," "up left," "take the stage," or "wait on the prompt side" meant; and thanks to their good nature he got on reasonably well. He was called upon also to rehearse the ball scene, where he "walked on" as a young man of fashion, and had the privilege of dancing with Miss Moon before dwindling, in the last act, to a mere Dead Hand. All the "business" had to be repeated again and again, until at last he was confident, and the stage manager almost hopeful.

It was five o'clock by the time Jacobus snapped irritably: "You'll have to do, anyhow"; but as afternoon tea was not a custom in the Human Flower Company, they missed little by absence from the hotel. Still, Loveland had found no chance for a private word with Lillie, who remained ignorant of his acquaintance with Bill Willing.

At six o'clock a meal, which called itself supper, was ready; and having bolted a cold edition of dinner, eked out with tinned peaches and cups of tea, actors and actresses marched forth in a body to begin the evening's work.

The curtain did not rise until half past seven, but this was Saturday night, and the town was eager for its entertainment. The young girls and their escorts liked nothing better than to see the "show men and women" walk past them up the hall, on the way to that thrilling region known as "behind the scenes," therefore at least a score of persons were seated in the dismal auditorium, munching apples or candy, and cracking peanuts, when the Human Flower and her company filed in.

A few little boys on the cheap benches at the back whistled, clapped their hands, stamped on the floor, and made "cat calls" as a greeting to the players, but those saluted took no notice, and skurried by like hunted things. Miss St. Clare hastened to her seat at the piano, near which an elderly quadroon had already begun to tune a fiddle, and melancholy Mr. Winter remained at the door to help the ticket seller, until it should be time for him to "make up" as the heroine's millionaire parent.

The gentlemen of the company (Loveland had already learned that they never spoke of each other as mere "men") dressed behind one partition, the ladies behind another, and the crowding could scarcely have been worse in the Black Hole of Calcutta. Nevertheless, everyone was more or less good natured. Costumes of a sort, and odds and ends of grease paints were offered to Loveland who, to his own surprise, was shaking and perspiring oddly with stage fright.

"What rot!" he roughly scolded himself. "As if an audience in a tenth-rate country village mattered! What do I care whether or not I know my part, or what they think of me?"

But the queer fact remained that he did care, and his heart thumped faster than it had thumped when he was roused one dark night to fight his first battle. As he saw what personable looking men his companions became after manipulating a few bits of grease-paint, putting on wigs and carefully-kept stage costumes, he began in spite of himself to take this queer theatrical engagement of his more seriously. He wanted to act well; he wanted to please Lillie de Lisle, and to satisfy Ed Binney, who was wishing him luck; he wanted to make a good impression on the pretty bright-eyed country girls who had stared at him with interest as he passed through the auditorium.

There were not nearly enough local stage hands employed in the theatre, and acting was not the only work the actors had to do. They helped place the scenery, and change the settings; they flew about like distracted demons, half dressed, with suspenders flying, turning a burglar's den into a millionaire's drawing-room; and between the bewildering alterations of scene, there was no rest for the sole of anyone's foot.

How they ever got themselves out of one costume into another in time, how they ever remembered which of their many doublings came first, which last, Loveland could not conceive; but, standing in the wings waiting for his own dreaded turn, he was filled with an increasing respect for the barn-stormers, male and female. They could act, too, most of them, which seemed to him the strangest part of all, for he had not expected to find the satellites of Bill's little Star twinkling with the light of talent. As for his own performance, he realised before it had begun that such histrionic efforts as had won him applause when an amateur in London would not be good enough to gain him admiration as a professional in Modunk. It was another thing when, as a handsome young soldier, Lord Loveland had swaggered easily about the stage, pleased with himself and pleasing everyone else, because everyone had come with the intention of being pleased.

Here, in remote little Modunk, the audience was evidently far more critical, and if it didn't like what it saw, it said so audibly with a voice from the cheap seats, or at least indulged in a prolonged fit of bored coughing. If Loveland could have gone on "as himself," as Jacobus had said, he might have captured the fancy of the girls; but as old Dave Dreadnought in a wild wig, and moth-eaten beard lent by "Pa" Winter, the new addition to the company could conquer the audience only by sheer force of acting.

Fortunately for Loveland, he was not obliged to walk onto the stage in answer to a cue, or it seemed to him that he could not have moved. It was bad enough to be "discovered," in the act of being murdered; and as the moment came when he would have to make his first speech, his blood was beating like a drum in his temples. His throat felt dry, and when his cue to speak was given by Jacobus with meaning emphasis, he could only swallow, and glare. Not a word of the carefully rehearsed part could he remember, and involuntarily looking out in front (a thing Ed Binney had warned him not to do) it seemed as if the rows of faces down below the yellow footlights were leaping up at him like a wave.

If he had seen the mocking grins or heard the titters which his morbid fears and exaggerated sensitiveness led him to expect, he would have collapsed into gasping helplessness, and died without giving the famous curse on which the rest of the play depended. But to his intense, almost agonising relief, the eyes staring up at him were eager, excited. The people were taking him in earnest! They were not laughing at him. He had power over them; and suddenly he felt able to make use of it.

Just as Jacobus bent over him, frantically glaring, ready to prompt and swear at the same time, Loveland's frozen hesitation melted into words and gestures, the right words, the right gestures. Jacobus sighed a great sigh of thanksgiving, and Val delivered his curse with a transport of zeal. He was half frightened at his own explosiveness, but the audience enjoyed it, and when the curtain went down upon his death there was a round of applause from the audience.

"They liked it all right," said Miss Moon.

"Are they doing that for me?" Loveland asked, incredulously.

"Why, of course," she replied. "You were the star of the scene."

"It would have to be a mighty rotten Dave not to get a few hands on his curse," said Jacobus. "Never saw one yet bad enough for that. It's the scene, not the actor, they clap."

But even this cold douche did not depress Loveland. Though dead as Dave, it was his business to rise again in the third act as a young man of fashion—a youthful butterfly from an ancient chrysalis—and drunk with the sweet draught of triumph, he made the change gaily, as happy for the moment as if he were playing before an audience of kings and queens.

He had dressed, and was lurking in the wings again, watching with some interest the arrest of the leading man for his (Loveland's) murder, on false evidence snakily given by Ed Binney, when Miss de Lisle flitted noiselessly up, very insufficiently disguised as a boy.

"I suppose you do remember that you're a young English Lord?" she whispered, anxiously.

Loveland started, and stared. Had she found him out?

"In your next scene," she explained.

"Oh," said Loveland, relieved. "Am I—er—a lord?"

"Yes. Didn't Jacobus tell you? But perhaps he thought it didn't matter."

"It doesn't seem to," retorted Val, smiling faintly at his own hidden meaning.

"You're supposed to be the son of the Duke of Highgate. Pa Winter's the Duke, you know. Of course, though, you haven't seen the whole play yet—only your own scenes, so you can't keep track of everything. You only have to walk on; or rather waltz on with Miss Moon, you know; and when she goes off, and I come on in girl's clothes again, you must say, "The next is mine, I believe," with an English drawl. But the part's down on the program as 'Lord William Vane.'"

"By Jove, I know Willy Vane. He's in the Black Wa——" began Loveland, but he bit his lip and broke off abruptly.

The Human Flower laughed. "I don't suppose your friend's a lord, though!"

Loveland did not reply, as the choice lay between a fib and an affirmative.

"You ought to know how lords behave, more than any of us," went on the girl, "as you're an Englishman. I suppose you've seen some?"

"Yes, a few," said Val cautiously.

"Did you ever get a chance to speak to one?"

"Now and then."

"Were they very haughty?"

"Not all of them."

"Well, as you've seen them you'll know just how to act, and you look real swell. This is an exciting play, ain't it? And my! how it does makes us all work. This is my only quiet time, and I guess you're tired. Perhaps you'd rather watch Jack Jacobus's big scene than talk to me? I have to go on, anyhow, in about four minutes."

"I'd rather talk to you than watch, if you'll let me," said Val.

"Well, as long as you don't make yourself too interesting, so I miss my cue! J. J. will be cross if he sees us whispering here, but he's too taken up with himself and his wife in this scene to notice much."

"That's lucky, because I have a message for you from an old friend of yours, that I've been wanting to tell you all day," Loveland began hastily, not to waste one of the four minutes. "I wonder if you remember him? Bill Willing?"

"Bill Willing!—a friend of yours?" the girl spoke sharply, in her surprise.

"Then you haven't forgotten him."

"Forgotten him? I never will, to my dying day."

Her voice quivered a little, for, like most actresses of her type, her emotions were as easily played upon as harp-strings.

"Those are almost the words he used about you," said Loveland, interested in Lillie's part of the broken love melody, as he had been in Bill's. "Only—his were stronger."

"What were they—exactly?"

"Shall I tell you, really?"

"Yes, quick—quick."

"He said he always had loved you, and always would love you till his dying day."

"Oh!" Lillie de Lisle gulped down a small sob. "I thought he'd forgotten all about me—long, long ago. He never wrote."

"No. He told me he didn't dare, or something like that, but he couldn't resist sending a message by me."

"If you knew what it is to me to hear from him again! How in the world did you meet him?"

But that was a long story, and before Loveland could begin to sketch it, the Human Flower heard her cue. With professional instinct she darted out of the entrance on to the stage, and took up her part, as if she had thought of nothing else since she laid it down.

It was not until the end of the third act that there was the smallest chance to continue the talk so suddenly broken short. Loveland had to change back again into the beard, wig, and bloodstained clothes of murdered Dave Dreadnought in order to appear as a ghost, and wave his Dead Hand under the remorseful villain's nose. But this act of retribution was reserved for the end of the play; therefore, encouraged by Lillie, Val stood half concealed in the shadow of some disused scenery, talking of Bill to Bill's Star.

He told her of Bill's dog, Shakespeare, the tiny creature "who made up a bit for the lost 'little gal.'" He told her how Bill generally contrived to put aside a dime each week, to buy a stage paper, solely in the hope of finding news of her. He described Bill's delight at hearing that she had become a "Star," with her own company, and explained how it was by Bill's wish and advice that he had written to ask for his present engagement.

"If only it was my company, really," sighed the poor little Star, "wouldn't I just send for Bill to come out? But I haven't got any more say than the property man, and J. J. used to hate Bill, because—because he was jealous. You see, that was before Jacobus married. Oh, since you're a friend of Bill's and he told you he cared about me, I can talk to you as if I'd known you for ever. If Bill had asked me to marry him, I would, in a minute. But he never did. I wasn't sure he ever really cared, till what you said tonight. He was the best man I ever knew."

"I'm not sure he isn't the best I ever knew, too," said Loveland.

"I'd have sooner begged with him than be a queen with a crown on my head, if he wasn't the king!" sighed Miss de Lisle. "Don't you feel that way, too, about love?"

"Yes," Loveland answered. "I didn't always: but then I used not to understand."

"It's too late now," Bill's Star went on. "We shall never see each other again."

The words echoed in Loveland's head. "Too late now; we shall never see each other again."

The Human Flower's thoughts were far away with Bill Willing. But at least she knew where he was, and was sure that he loved her, while Val did not even know the name of the place near Louisville where Lesley Dearmer lived, and he was sure that she did not love him. Yes, he was sure of that, though perhaps there was a time, he told himself, when he might have made her care.

Instead of trying to win her when he had the chance, he had asked her advice about the best way of making love to other girls. Oh, he deserved all he had got, he thought with sudden fury—all—even to being a waiter at Alexander's, and a leading juvenile under the management of "J. J."