On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage.  Drouet rode with her as far as the door, and then went about the neighboring stores, looking for some good cigars.  The little actress marched nervously into her dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter of make-up which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of Society.

The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and display, the scattered contents of the make-up box—­rouge, pearl powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eye-lids, wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery—­in short, all the nameless paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their own.  Since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, but always in a far-removed manner.  This new atmosphere was more friendly.  It was wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away, permitting her only awe and distant wonder.  This took her by the hand kindly, as one who says, “My dear, come in.”  It opened for her as if for its own.  She had wondered at the greatness of the names upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the papers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere of carriages, flowers, refinement.  Here was no illusion.  Here was an open door to see all of that.  She had come upon it as one who stumbles upon a secret passage and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamonds and delight!

As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, noting Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation, seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying over what the result would be, she could not help thinking what a delight this would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if she could only do well now, and then some time get a place as a real actress.  The thought had taken a mighty hold upon her.  It hummed in her ears as the melody of an old song.

Outside in the little lobby another scene was begin enacted.  Without the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately interested in its welfare.  Hurstwood’s word, however, had gone the rounds.  It was to be a full-dress affair.  The four boxes had been taken.  Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one.  This was quite a card.  C. R. Walker, dry-goods merchant and possessor of at least two hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known coal merchant had been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood and his friends the fourth.  Among the latter was Drouet.  The people who were now pouring here were not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in a general sense.  They were the lights of a certain circle—­the circle of small fortunes and secret order distinctions.  These gentlemen