continual horror. I abhorred the play, the making of a nightly spectacle of myself, the rudeness and freedom of the audiences, the coarse, common-place people with whom I was constantly compelled to consort. You know them, and can therefore realize to some extent what daily association with them must necessarily mean to one of my early training and familiarity with quieter social customs. But my position in the troupe afforded me certain privileges of isolation, while my necessities compelled me to persevere. As a result, the dormant art-spirit within apparently came to life; ambition began to usurp the place of indifference; I became more and more disgusted with mediocrity, and began an earnest struggle toward higher achievements. I had little to guide me other than my own natural instincts, yet I persevered. I insisted on living my own life while off the stage, and, to kill unhappy thought, I devoted all my spare moments to hard study. Almost to my surprise, the very effort brought with it happiness. I began to forget the past and its crudities, to blot out the present with its dull, unpleasant realities, and to live for the future. My ideals, at first but vague dreams, took form and substance. I determined to succeed, to master my art, to develop whatever of talent I might possess to its highest possibility, to become an actress worthy of the name. This developing ideal has already made me a new woman—it has given me something to live for, to strive toward."
She came to a sudden pause, perceiving in the frank gray eyes scanning her animated face a look which caused her own to droop. Then her lips set in firmer resolution, and she continued as though in utter indifference to his presence.
"You may not comprehend all this, but I do. It was the turning-point in my life. And I began right where I was. I endeavored to make the utmost possible out of that miserable melodramatic part which had been assigned to me. I elected to play it quietly, with an intensity to be felt and not heard, the very opposite from the interpretation given by Miss Lyle last season, and I felt assured my efforts were appreciated by the audiences. It encouraged me to discover them so responsive; but Albrecht, Lane, and Mooney merely laughed and winked at each other, and thus hurt me cruelly, although I had little respect for their criticisms. Still, they were professional actors of experience, and I was not yet certain that my judgment might not be wrong. Miss Head, the ingénue, a girl of sweet disposition but little education, praised my efforts warmly, but otherwise your evident appreciation is my only real reward. I spoke to you that evening in the wings not so much to scold you for being in the way, as from a hungry, despairing hope that you might speak some word of encouragement. I was not disappointed, and I have felt stronger ever since."
"I should never have suspected any such purpose. We have never so much as exchanged speech since, until to-day, and then I forced it."
She shook her head, a vagrant tress of her black hair loosening.
"You must be a very young and inexperienced man to expect to comprehend all that any woman feels merely by what she says or does."
"No," smilingly, "I have advanced beyond that stage of development, although the mystery of some womanly natures may always remain beyond me. But can I ask you a somewhat personal question, also?"
"Most assuredly, yet I expressly reserve the privilege of refusing a direct reply."
"Is Beth Norvell your real, or merely your stage name?"
"Why do you ask? That is a secret which, I believe, an actress is privileged to keep inviolate."
"For one particular reason—because I cannot escape a vague impression that somewhere we have met before."
She did not respond immediately, her gloved fingers perceptibly tightening about the prayer-book, her eyes carefully avoiding his own.
"You are mistaken in that, for we have never met," she said slowly, and with emphasis. "Moreover, Beth Norvell is my stage name, but in part it is my true name also." Suddenly she paused and glanced aside at him. "I have spoken with unusual frankness to you this morning, Mr. Winston. Most people, I imagine, find me diffident and uncommunicative—perhaps I appear according to my varying moods. But I have been lonely, and in some way you have inspired my confidence and unlocked my life. I believe you to be a man worthy of trust, and because I thus believe I am now going to request you not to ask me any more. My past life has not been so bright that I enjoy dwelling upon it. I have chosen rather to forget it entirely, and live merely for the future."
They were standing before the door of the ladies' entrance to the hotel by this time, and the young man lifted his hat gravely.
"Your wish shall certainly be respected," he said with courtesy, "yet that does not necessarily mean that our friendship is to end here."
Her face became transfigured by a sudden smile, and she impulsively extended her hand.
"Assuredly not, if you can withstand my vagaries. I have never made friends easily, and am the greater surprised at my unceremonious frankness with you. Yet that only makes it harder to yield up a friendship when once formed. Do you intend, then, to remain with the company? I have no choice, but you have the whole world."
"Yet, my intense devotion to the art of the Thespian holds me captive."
Their eyes met smilingly, and the next instant the door closed quietly between them.
Winston turned aside and entered the gloomy hotel office, feeling mentally unsettled, undetermined in regard to his future conduct. Miss Norvell had proven frankly intimate, delightfully cordial, yet overshadowing it all there remained unquestionably a certain constraint about both words and actions which continued to perplex and tantalize. She had something in her past life to conceal; she did not even pretend to deceive him in this regard, but rather held him off with deliberate coolness. The very manner in which this had been accomplished merely served to stimulate his eagerness to penetrate the mystery of her reserve, and caused him to consider her henceforth as altogether differing from other girls. She had become a problem, an enigma, which he would try to solve; and her peculiar nature, baffling, changeable, full of puzzling moods, served to fascinate his imagination, to invite his dreaming. A strange thrill swept him when he caught a fleeting glimpse of white skirt and well-turned ankle as she ran swiftly up the steep staircase, yet, almost at the same instant, he returned to earth with a sudden shock, facing Mooney, when the latter turned slowly away from the window and sneeringly confronted him. The mottled face was unpleasantly twisted, a half-smoked cigar tilted between his lips. An instant the half-angry eyes of the two men met.
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