as eldon’s words echoed back through his ears he knew that he had said too much and too soon. sheila was afraid to speak at all; she could not improvise the exquisitely nice phrase that should say neither more nor less than enough. indeed, she could not imagine just what she wanted to say, what she really felt or ought to feel.

the woman was never born, probably, who could find a declaration of devotion entirely unwelcome, no matter from whom. and yet sheila felt any number of inconveniences in being loved by this man who was a total stranger yesterday and an old acquaintance to-day. it would be endlessly embarrassing to have a member of the company, especially so humble a member, infatuated with her. it would be infinitely difficult to be ordinarily polite to him without either wounding him or seeming to encourage him. she had the theatric gift for carrying on a situation into its future developments. she was silent, but busily silent, dramatizing to-morrows, and the to-morrows of to-morrows.

eldon’s thoughts also were speeding noisily through his brain while his lips were uncomfortably idle. he felt that he had been guilty of a gross indiscretion and he wanted to remove himself from the discomfort he had created, but he could not find the courage to get himself to his feet, or the wit to continue or even to take up some other subject.

it was probably their silence that finally wakened mrs. vining. she opened her drowsy eyes, wondering how long she had slept and hoping that they had not missed her. she realized at once that they were both laboring under some confusion. she was going to ask what it was.

sheila resented the situation. already she was a fellow-culprit with this troublesome young man. an unwitting rescuer appeared in the person of the stage-manager who dawdled along the aisle in the boredom of a stage-manager, who can never quite forget his position of authority and is never allowed to forget that his flock are proud individuals who feel that they know more than he does.

sheila was impelled to appeal to batterson on eldon’s behalf, but she and the stage-manager had been in a state of armed truce since a clash that occurred at rehearsals. batterson was not the original producer of the play, but he put out the road company and kept with it.

a reading of sheila’s had always jarred him. he tried to change it. she tried to oblige him, but simply could not grasp what he was driving at. one of those peculiar struggles ensued in which two people are mutually astounded and outraged at their inability to explain or understand.

but if mr. batterson was hostile to sheila, he was afraid of mrs. vining, both because he revered her and because she had known him when he was one of the most unpromising beginners that ever attempted the stage. he had never succeeded as an actor, which was no proof of his inability to tell others how to act, but always seemed so to them.

as he would have passed, mrs. vining, quite as if sheila had prompted her, made a gesture of detention:

“oh, mr. batterson, will you do me a great favor?” he bowed meekly, and she said, “be a good boy and give mr. eldon here a chance to do some real work the first opportunity you get.”

batterson sighed. “good lord! has he been pestering you, too?”

“he has been telling me of his struggles and his ambitions,” mrs. vining answered, with reproving dignity, “and i can see that he has ability. he is a gentleman, at least, and that is more than can be said of some of the people who are given some of the r?les.”

batterson did not relish this. he had had one or two battles with mrs. vining over some of her stage business and had been withered by her comments on his knowledge of what really went on in real drawing-rooms. she had told him that they were as different as possible from stage drawing-rooms, and he had lacked information to answer. all he said now was:

“i’ve promised eldon a dozen times that he should have a try at the first vacancy. but you know this old guard; they never surrender and they never die.”

“except when they get a cue,” was mrs. vining’s drop of acid.

batterson renewed his pledge and moved on, with a glance in which eldon felt more threat than promise. but he thanked mrs. vining profusely and apologized to sheila for taking so much of her time talking about himself. this made a good exit speech and he retired to his cell, carrying with him a load of new anxieties and ambitions.

triply happy was eldon now. he had been commended to the stage-manager and promised the first opportunity. he was getting somewhere. he had established himself in the good graces of the old duchess of the troupe. he had put his idol, sheila, under obligations to him. he had ventured to let her know that he had joined the company on her account, and she had not rebuked him. this in itself was a thousand miles on his journey.

the meter of the train had hitherto been but a dry, monotonous clickety-click like the rattle bones of a dolorous negro minstrel. now it was a jig, a wedding jig. the wheels and the rails fairly sang to him time after tune. the amiable hippety-hop fitted itself to any joyful thought that cantered through his heart.

by and by a town came sliding to the windows—milton, a typical smallish city with a shabby station, a stupid hotel, no history, and no sights; it had reached the gawky age and stopped growing. but eldon bade it welcome. he liked anybody and any place. he set out for the hotel, swinging his suit-case as if it were the harp of a troubadour. he walked with two or three other men of the company.

old jaffer had said: “the mansion house is the only hotel. it’s three blocks to the right from the station and then two blocks to the left.” jaffer knew the least bad hotel and just how to find it in hundreds of towns. he was a living gazetteer. “i’ve been to every burg in the country, i think,” he would say, “and i’ve never seen one yet that had anything to see.” the highest praise he could give a place was, “it’s a good hotel town.”

but they were all paradises to eldon. he had fed so dismally and so sparsely, as a man out of a job, that even the mid-westem coffee tasted good to him. besides, to-day he had fed on honey dew and drunk the milk of paradise.

he was so jubilant that he offered to carry the hand-bag of vincent tuell, who labored along at his side, groaning. eldon’s offer offended tuell, who was just old enough to resent his age. it had already begun to lop dollars off his salary and to cut him out of the line of parts he had once commanded.

tuell had never reached high—but he had always hoped high. now he had closed the books of hope. he was on the down grade. his career had not been a peak, but a foot-hill, and he was on the wrong side of that. he received eldon’s proffer as an accusation of years. he answered with a bitter negative, “no, thank you, damn you!”

eldon apologized with a laugh. he felt as hilariously contented and sportive as a young pup whom no rebuff can offend. as he strode along he glanced back and saw that sheila and mrs. vining were footing it, too, and carrying such luggage as pennock could not accommodate. eldon was amazed. he had supposed that they would ride. he dropped back to sheila’s elbow and pleaded:

“won’t you let me take a cab and ride you to the hotel?”

sheila thanked him no, and mrs. vining finished him off:

“young man, if you’re going to be an actor you must learn to practise small economies—especially in small towns where you gain nothing by extravagance. you never know how short your season may be. the actor who wastes money on cabs in the winter will be borrowing car fare in the summer.”

eldon accepted the repulse as if it were a bouquet. “i see; but at least you must let me carry your suit-cases.”

mrs. vining threw him much the same answer as tuell: “i’m not so old as i look, and i travel light.”

he turned to sheila, whose big carry-all was so heavy that it dragged one shoulder down. she looked like the picture of somebody or other carrying a bucket from the well—or was it from a cow? he put out his hand. she turned aside to dodge him. he followed her closely and finally wrested the suit-case from her. seeing his success, mrs. vining yielded him hers also. he let pennock trudge with hers. and so they walked to the hotel and marched up to the desk.

jaffer and tuell had already registered. eldon thought they might at least have waited till the ladies had had first choice. he was surprised to hear sheila and mrs. vining haggling over the prices of lodging and choosing rooms of moderate cost.

he had no chance to speak to them at the performance or after it, but the next morning he hung about the lobby till train-time. he pretended much surprise at seeing sheila,—as if he had not been waiting for her! he was a bad actor. again he secured the carry-all in spite of her protests. if he had known more he would have seen that she gave up to avoid a battle. but she dropped back with pennock and left him to walk with mrs. vining, who did not hesitate to assail him with her usual directness:

“young man, you’re very nice and you mean very well, but you’ve got a lot to learn. have you noticed that when the company gets into a train or a public dining-room, everybody settles as far away as possible from everybody else?”

eldon had noticed it. it had shocked him. mrs. vining went on:

“and no doubt you’ve seen a big, husky actor let a poor, tired actress drag her own baggage to a far-off hotel.”

eldon had noted that, too, with deep regret. he was astounded when mrs. vining said:

“well, that actor is showing that actress the finest courtesy he can. when men and women are traveling this way on business, the man who is attentive to a woman is doing her a very dubious kindness, unless they’re married or expect to be.”

“why?” said eldon. “can’t he pay her ordinary human courtesy?”

“he’d better not,” said mrs. vining, “or he’ll start the other members of the company and the gaping crowd of outsiders to whispering: ‘oh, he’s carrying her valise now! it’s a sketch!’?”

“a ‘sketch’?” eldon murmured.

“yes, a—an alliance, an affair. a theatrical troupe is like a little village on wheels. everybody gossips. everybody imagines—builds a big play out of a little scenario. and so the actor who is a true gentleman has to keep forgetting that he is one. it’s a penalty we women must pay for earning our livings. you see now, don’t you, mr. eldon?”

he bowed and blushed to realize that it was all meant as a rebuke to his forwardness. he had been treated with consideration, and had immediately proceeded to make a nuisance of himself. he had no right to carry sheila’s burdens, and his insistence had been only an embarrassment to her. he had behaved like a greedy porter at a railroad station to whom one surrenders with wrath in order to silence his demands.

he had not progressed so far as he thought. his train had been ordered to back up. when he had placed sheila’s baggage and mrs. vining’s in the seats they chose in the day coach, he declined sheila’s invitation to sit down, and sulked in the smoking-car.

the towns that followed milton were as stupid as jaffer had said they were. the people who lived there seemed to love them, or at least they did not leave them, but they were dry oases for the lonely traveler. few of the towns had even a statue, and most of those that had statues would have been the richer for their absence.

of one thing eldon made sure—that he would never inflict another of his compromising politenesses on miss sheila kemble. he avoided her so ostentatiously that the other members of the company noticed it. those who had instantly said when he carried her valise, “aha! he is carrying her valise now!” were presently saying, “oh, he’s not carrying her valise now!”