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HE rehearsal had already begun. The orchestra was dark and the stage so lit that the dust in the ornate plaster-work about the lower boxes showed to its greatest advantage.

A humble cottage room was represented in a set painted entirely with burnt umber. A door at the right, a window and stove at the left, a table in the centre covered with a peasant blue-and-white cloth, and one solitary figure in an arm-chair completed the scene.

In the front rows of the orchestra sat several people prominent in the theatrical world. Hats and coats were piled along the musicians' rail. The director stood in the centre aisle at about the sixth row shouting his directions. His face seemed long and sour as though it had been pressed in at the sides by a lemon squeezer. From time to time he would turn his back upon the stage and walk up the aisle bending over and nodding his head as though he were climbing a hill.

The electricians would creep in now and again from the side and change one or two of the amber lamps in the footlights. The actress on the stage was made up with brown paint to give her age. She rose from the arm-chair and walked up and down awaiting the decision of the director. As she would turn or bend one caught a line of bright white skin at the neck of her dress. The brown paint had not been extended far enough.

"No! No! No!" yelled the director—"Take that line over again."

The actress seated herself in the chair, twisted her head about, and said in a deep clear voice, "I think it is growing colder."

"What is it growing?" shouted the director.

"I think it is growing colder," repeated the actress.

"I don't see you feel it once more."

This time she shook her shoulders before turning to the window.

"I think it is growing colder."

"No! No! No! Take it over again. Forget that you once played Juliet. You are an old woman now; forget the romance. And