Sheila was late at the rehearsal the next morning, and so dejected that she hardly felt regret at hearing Vickery tell her how many of her favorite scenes had to be   
omitted because they were not essential. Vickery held command of the company with the plucky misery of a Napoleon retreating from his Moscow.
 
When this rehearsal was over the director told Sheila that she need not stay to rehearse the next week’s bill, since Reben had asked him to release her from further 
 
work. He had telegraphed to New York for a woman who had played the same part with great success, and received answer that she would be able to step in without 
 
inconvenience. Sheila was dolefully relieved. She felt that she could never have learned another r?le. She felt almost grateful to Reben. “My brain has stopped,” she 
 
told Pennock; “just stopped.”
 
The Tuesday afternoon matinée was always the worst of the week. The heat was like a persecution. The actors played havoc with cues and lines, and the suffocated 
 
audience was too indifferent to know or care.
 
After the performance Vickery was so lost to hope that he grew sardonic. He said with a tormented smile:
 
“It’s a pity Reben didn’t stay over. If he had seen how badly this performance went he would have sworn that the play would run a year on his dear damned Broadway. 
 
I’m going to telegraph him so.”
 
Tuesday night the house was again poor, though better than at the matinée. The company settled down into harness like draught-horses beginning a long pull. The 
 
laughter was feeble and not focused. It was indeed so scattered that the voice of one man was audible above the rest.
 
Out of the silences or the low murmurs of laughter resounded the gigantic roars of this single voice. People in the audience twisted about to see who it was. The 
 
people on the stage were confused at first, and later amused. They also made more or less concealed efforts to place the fellow.
 
By and by the audience began to catch the contagion of his mirth. It laughed first at his laughter, and then at the play. During the third act the piece was going so 
 
well that it was impossible to pick out any individual noise.
 
After the last curtain a number of townspeople went back on the stage to tell Sheila how much they liked the play, and especially her work. They had read the glowing 
 
criticisms in the morning and evening papers. They had not heard what Reben had said of what Broadway would say. They would not have cared. Broadway was suspect in 
 
Clinton.
 
These bouquets had the savor of artificial flowers to Sheila, but she enacted the r?le of gratitude to the best of her ability. Back of the knot surrounding her she 
 
saw Vickery standing with a towering big fellow evidently waiting to be presented. Then she saw Eldon shaking hands with the stranger.
 
Bret Winfield was suffering from stage-fright. He had met Vickery in New York and had promised to run down to see his play, and incidentally to square himself with the 
 
girl he had frightened. In the generally disheveled state of brains that characterizes a playwright during rehearsal, Vickery had neglected to tell Winfield that the 
 
company contained also the man that Winfield had vowed to square himself with.
 
When, years before at Leroy, Eldon, as the taxicab-driver, had floated Winfield over the footlights, he had worn a red wig and disguising make-up. When Winfield saw 
 
him on the stage as a handsome youth perfectly groomed, there was no resemblance. Eldon’s name was on the program, but Winfield was one of those who pay little heed 
 
to programs, prefaces, and title-pages. He was one of those who never know the names of the authors, actors, composers, printers, and architects whose work pleases 
 
them. They “know what they like,” but they never know who made it.
 
As he waited to reach Sheila, Winfield noted Eldon standing in a little knot of admirers of his own. He said to Vickery, with that elegance of diction which has always 
 
distinguished collegians:
 
“That lad who played your hero is a great little actor, ’Gene. He’s right there all the time. I’d like to slip it to him.”
 
Vickery absently led him to Eldon and introduced the two, swallowing both names. The two powerful hands met in a warm clutch that threatened to become a test of grip. 
 
Winfield poured out his homage:
 
“You’re certainly one actor, Mr.—er—er— You’ve got a sad, solemn way of pulling your laughs that made me make a fool of myself.”
 
“You’re very kind to think so,” said Eldon, overjoyed to ge............