A large bowl of small crackers was set before them, damp squares of strong butter on small nicked plates, finally a bowl of pink, odorous shrimps.  These were all gone when, after a long wait, the fried oysters came smoking hot, slipped straight from the pan to the plates.  Martie drank coffee, as Mary did; the others had thick goblets of red wine.  With the hot, warming food, their gaiety waxed higher; everybody felt that the party was a great success.

The bell on the door reverberated, and a man came in alone, and looked about undecidedly for a seat.

“Hello!” said Rodney.  “There’s Wallace Bannister!”

The young actor joined them.  And this, to Martie, was one of the most thrilling moments of her life.  He quite openly wedged his way in to sit on the other side of her; he said that he could see they didn’t need the gaslight when Miss Monroe was along.  Rodney said she was Brunhilde, and Bannister’s comment was that she could save wig bills with that hair!  Florence said eagerly that she loved Brunhilde—­let’s see, what opera did that come in?  It was the Ring, anyway.  The spirits of the group rose every second.

Ah, this was living—­thought Martie.  Oysters and wine and a real actor, a man who knew the world, who chattered of Portland, Los Angeles, and San Francisco as if they had been Monroe and Pittsville.  It was intoxicating to hear him exchanging comments with Rodney; no, he hadn’t finished “coll.”  “I’m a rolling stone, Miss Monroe; we actor-fellows always are!” He was “signed up” now; he gave them a glimpse of a long, typewritten contract.  Martie ventured a question as to the leading lady.

“She’s a nice woman,” said Wallace Bannister generously.  “I like to play against Mabel.  Jesse Cluett, her husband, is in the play; and his kid, too, her stepson—­Lloyd—­he’s seventeen.  Ever try the profession, Miss Monroe?”

Martie flushed a pleased disclaimer.  But the tiny seed was sown, nevertheless.  She liked the question; she was even vaguely glad that Mrs. Cluett was forty and a married woman.

Wallace Bannister was older than Rodney, thirty or thirty-two, although even off the stage he looked much younger.  He had dipped into college work in a dull season, amusing himself idly in the elementary classes of French and English where his knowledge in these branches gave him immediate prominence—­and drifting away in a road company after only a few months of fraternity and campus popularity.  His mother and father were both dead; the latter had been a theatrical manager in a small way, sending little stock companies up and down the coast for one-night stands.

Bannister was tall, well-built, and handsome.  His cheeks had a fresh fullness, and his black hair was as shining as wet coal.  He was eager and magnetic; musical, literary, or religious, according to the company in which he found himself.  Martie’s thrilled interest firing him to-night, he exerted himself:  told stories in Chinese dialect, in brogue, and with an excellent Scotch burr; he went to the rickety piano, and from the loose keys, usually set in motion by a nickel in the slot, he evoked brilliant songs, looking over his shoulder with his sentimental bold eyes at the company as he sang.  And Martie said to herself, “Ah—­this is life!”