She stepped quickly backward, listening to the voices droning on the stage, but there remained still a moment of liberty, and she glanced uncertainly about at Winston.

“Am I to thank you for giving me such immaculate dressing-rooms of late?” she questioned, just a little archly.

“I certainly wielded the broom.”

“It was thoughtful of you,” and her clear voice hesitated an instant.  “Was—­was it you, also, who placed those flowers upon my trunk last evening?”

He bowed, feeling slightly embarrassed by the swift returning restraint in her manner.

“They were most beautiful.  Where did you get them?”

“From Denver; they were forwarded by express, and I am only too glad if they brought you pleasure.”

“Miracle of miracles!  A stage-hand ordering roses from Denver!  It must have cost you a week’s salary.”

He smiled: 

“And, alas, the salary has not even been paid.”

Her eyes were uplifted to his face, yet fell as suddenly, shadowed behind the long lashes.

“I thank you very much,” she said, her voice trembling, “only please don’t do it again; I would rather not have you.”

Before he could frame a satisfactory answer to so unexpected a prohibition she had stepped forth upon the stage.

This brief interview did not prove as prolific of results as Winston confidently expected.  Miss Norvell evidently considered such casual conversation no foundation for future friendship, and although she greeted him when they again met, much as she acknowledged acquaintanceship with the others of the troupe, there remained a quiet reserve about her manner, which effectually barred all thought of possible familiarity.  Indeed, that she ever again considered him as in any way differing from the others about her did not once occur to Winston until one evening at Bluffton, when by chance he stood resting behind a piece of set scenery and thus overheard the manager as he halted the young lady on the way to her dressing room.

“Meess Norvell,” and Albrecht stood rubbing his hands and smiling genially, “at Gilchrist we are pilled to blay for dwo nights, und der second blay vill be der ’Man from der Vest’—­you know dot bart, Ida Somers?”

“Yes,” she acknowledged, “I am perfectly acquainted with the lines, but who is to play Ralph Wilde?”

“Mister Mooney, of course.  You tink dot I import some actors venever I change der pill?”

She lifted her dark, expressive eyes to his mottled face, slowly gathering up her skirts in one hand.

“As you please,” she said quietly, “but I shall not play Ida Somers to Mr. Mooney’s Ralph Wilde.  I told you as much plainly before we left Denver, and it was for that special reason the ‘Heart of the World’ was substituted.  The more I have seen of Mr. Mooney since we took the road, the less I am inclined to yield in this matter.”

Albrecht laughed coarsely, his face reddening.