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“She’s frightened,” whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.

The manager made no answer.

She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.

“Well, that’s as much as to say that I’m a sort of life pill.”

It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.

There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense of impending disaster, say, sadly:

“I wish you hadn’t said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, ‘Call a maid by a married name.’ ”

The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not get it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as if she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her lines clearly at least. Drouet looked away from the stage at the audience. The latter held out silently, hoping for a general change, of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better. He was pouring determination of his own in her direction. He felt sorry for her.

In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a conversation between the professional actor and a character called Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who really developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned messenger for a living. He bawled his lines out with such defiance that, while they really did not partake of the humour intended, they were funny. Now he was off, however, and it was back to pathos, with Carrie as the chief figure. She did not recover. She wandered through the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief.

“She’s too nervous,” said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the remark that he was lying for once.

“Better go back and say a word to her.”

Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly door-keeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her.

“Say, Cad,” he said, looking at her, “you mustn’t be nervous. Wake up. Those guys out there don’t amount to anything. What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know,” said Carrie. “I just don’t seem to be able to do it.”

She was grateful for the drummer’s presence, though. She had found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone.

“Come on,” said Drouet. “Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out there now, and do the trick. What do you care?”

Carrie revived a little under the drummer’s electrical, nervous condition.

“Did I do so very bad?”

“Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you showed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night.”

Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she could do it.

“What’s next?” he said, looking at her part, which she had been studying.

“Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him.”

“Well, now you do that lively,” said the drummer. “Put in snap, that’s the thing. Act as if you didn’t care.”

“Your turn next, Miss Madenda,” said the prompter.

“Oh, dear,” said Carrie.

“Well, you’re a chump for being afraid,” said Drouet. “Come on now, brace up. I’ll watch you from right here.”

“Will you?” said Carrie.

“Yes, now go on. Don’t be afraid.”

The prompter signalled her.

She started out, weak as ever but suddenly her nerve partially returned. She thought of Drouet looking.

“Ray,” she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the director at the rehearsal.

“She’s easier,” thought Hurstwood to himself.

She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct observation from