She stood staring straight at him, her lips parted, apparently so thoroughly startled by these unexpected words as to be left speechless.

“Why,” she managed to articulate at last, her cheeks flushing, “I supposed you like the others we have had with us—­just—­just a common stage hand.  You speak with refinement, with meaning.”

“Have you not lived sufficiently long in the West to discover that men of education are occasionally to be found in rough clothing?”

“Oh, yes,” doubtfully, her eyes still on his face, “miners, stockmen, engineers, but scarcely in your present employment.”

“Miss Norvell,” and Winston straightened up, “possibly I may be employed here for a reason similar to that which has induced you to travel with a troupe of barn-stormers.”

She shrugged her shoulders, her lips smiling, the seductive dimple showing in her cheeks.

“And what was that?”

“The ambition of an amateur to attain a foothold upon the professional stage.”

“Who told you so?”

“Mr. Samuel Albrecht was guilty of the suggestion.

“It was extremely nice of him to discuss my motives thus freely with a stranger.  But he told you only a very small portion of the truth.  In my case it was rather the imperative necessity of an amateur to earn her own living—­a deliberate choice between the professional stage and starvation.”

“Without ambition?”

She hesitated slightly, yet there was a depth of respect slumbering within those gray eyes gazing so directly into her darker ones, together with a strength she felt.

“Without very much at first, I fear,” she confessed, as though admitting it rather to herself alone, “yet I acknowledge it has since grown upon me, until I have determined to succeed.”

His eyes brightened, the admiration in them unconcealed, his lips speaking impulsively.

“And what is more, Miss Norvell, you ’ll make it.”

“Do you truly believe so?” She had already forgotten that the man before her was a mere stage hand, and her cheeks burned eagerly to the undoubted sincerity of his utterance.  “No one else has ever said that to me—­only the audiences have appeared to care and appreciate.  Albrecht and all those others have scarcely offered me a word of encouragement.”

“Albrecht and the others are asses,” ejaculated Winston, with sudden indignation.  “They imagine they are actors because they prance and bellow on a stage, and they sneer at any one who is not in their class.  But I can tell you this, Miss Norvell, the manager considers you a treasure; he said as much to me.”

She stood before him, the glare of the stage glinting in her hair, her hands clasped, her dark eyes eagerly reading his face as though these unexpected words of appreciation had yielded her renewed courage, like a glass of wine.

“Really, is that true?  Oh, I am so glad.  I thought, perhaps, they were only making fun of me out in front, although I have always tried so hard to do my very best.  You have given me a new hope that I may indeed master the art.  Was that my cue?”