“Mary, you must not cry this way,” said Mrs. Coppered, seriously.  “You don’t want little Phil to see you with red eyes, do you?  Mr. Wyatt and I have been talking it over,” she went on, “but it remains to be seen, dear, if all the members of the company are willing to go to the trouble.”  Her apologetic look went around the listening circle.  “It inconveniences every one, you know, and it would mean a rehearsal tonight—­this minute, in fact, when every one’s tired and cold.”  Her voice was soothing, very low.  But the gentle tones carried their message to every one there.  The mortal cleverness of such an appeal struck Duncan sharply, as an onlooker.

The warm-hearted star, Eleanor Forsythe, whose photographs Duncan had seen hundreds of times, was the first to respond with a half-indignant protest that she wasn’t too tired and cold to do that much for the dear kiddy, and other volunteers rapidly followed suit.  Ten minutes later the still tearful little mother was actually in a cab whirling through the dark streets toward the hospital where the child lay, and a rehearsal was in full swing upon the stage of the Colonial.  Only the few actors actually necessary to the scenes in which Mabel figures need have remained; but a general spirit of sympathetic generosity kept almost the entire cast.  Mr. Penrose, as Triplet, had the brunt of the dialogue to carry; and he and Margaret, who had quite unaffectedly laid aside her furs and entered seriously into the work of the evening, remained after all the others had lingered away, one by one.

Duncan watched from one of the stage boxes, his vague, romantic ideas of life behind the footlights rather dashed before the three hours of hard work were over.  This was not very thrilling; this had no especial romantic charm.  The draughts, the dust, the wide, icy space of the stage, the droning voices, the crisp interruptions, the stupid “business,” endlessly repeated, all seemed equally disenchanting.  The stagehands had set the stage for the next day’s opening curtain, and had long ago departed.  Duncan was cold, tired, headachy.  He began to realize the edge of a sharp appetite, too; he and Margaret had barely touched their dinner, back at home those ages ago.

He could have forgiven her, he told himself, bitterly, if this plunge into her old life had had some little glory in it.  If, for instance, Mrs. Gregory had asked her to play Lady Macbeth or Lady Teazle in amateur theatricals at home, why one could excuse her for yielding to the old lure.  But this, this secondary part, these commonplace, friendly actors, this tiring night experience, this eager deference on her part to every one, this pitiful anxiety to please, where she should, as Mrs. Carey Coppered, have been proudly commanding and dictatorial—­it was all exasperating and disappointing to the last degree; it was, he told himself, savagely, only what one might have expected!

Presently, when Duncan was numb in every limb, Margaret began to button herself into her outer wraps, and, escorted by Penrose, they went to supper.  Duncan hesitated at the door of the cafe.