that night sheila went to bed to sleep out sleep. when pennock asked, on leaving her arranged for slumber, “will you be called at the usual hour, please?” sheila

answered, “i won’t be called at all, please!”

this privilege alone was like a title of gentility to a tired laundress. there would be no rehearsal on the morrow for her.

the other galley-slaves in the company must still bend to the oar, but she had shore leave of mornings, and after saturday she was free altogether.

now that she had time to be tired, old aches and fatigues whose consideration had had to be postponed came thronging upon her, till she wondered how she had endured

the toil. still more she wondered why.

then she wondered nothing at all for a good many hours, until the old habit of being called awakened her. she glanced at her watch, saw that it was half past ten, and

flung out of bed, gasping, “they’ll be rehearsing and i’m not there!”

then she remembered her liberty, and stood feeling pleasantly foolish. the joy of toppling back to bed was more than payment for the fright she had suffered. it was

glorious to float like a basking swimmer on the surface of sleep, with little ripples of unconsciousness washing over her face and little sunbeams of dream between.

in the half-awake moods she reviewed her ambitions with an indolent contempt. that man winfield’s words came back to her. after all, she had no home except her father

’s summer cottage. and she had been planning no home except possibly another such place whither she would retire in the late spring until the early fall, to rest from

last season’s hotels and recuperate for next season’s. yes, that was just about the home life she had sketched out!

it occurred to her now that her plans had been unhuman and unwomanly. “a woman’s place is the home,” she said. it was not an original thought, but it came to her

with a sudden originality as sometimes lines she had heard or had spoken dozens of times abruptly became real.

she wanted a pretty little house where she could busy herself with pretty little tasks while her big, handsome husband was away earning a pretty little provender for

both of them. she would be a young mother-bird haunting the nest, leaving the male bird to forage and fight. that was the life desirable and appropriate. women were

not made to work. an actress was an abnormal creature.

sheila did not realize that the vast majority of home-keeping women must work quite as hard as the actress, with no vacations, little income, and less applause. the

picture of the husband returning laughing to his eager spouse was a decidedly idealized view of a condition more unfailing in literature than in life. some of those

housewives who had grown tired of their lot, as she of hers, would have told her that most husbands return home weary and discontented, to listen with small interest

to their weary and discontented wives. and many husbands go out again soon after they have come home again.

sheila was doing what the average person does in criticizing the stage life—magnifying its faults and contrasting it, not with the average home, but with an ideal

condition not often to be found, and less often lasting when found.

sheila had known so little of the average family existence that she imagined it according to the romantic formula, “and so they were married and lived happily ever

afterward.” she thought that that would be very nice. and she lolled at her ease, weltering in visions of cozy domesticity with peace and a hearth and a noble

american citizen and the right number of perfectly fascinating children painlessly borne and painlessly borne with.

anything, anything would be better than this business of rehearsing and rehearsing and squabbling and squabbling, and then settling down into a dismal repetition of

the same old nonsense in the same old theater or in a succession of same old theaters.

how good it was, just not to have to learn a new play for next week! it was good that there was no opportunity to rehearse any further revisions even of poor vickery’

s play. there was almost a consolation in the thought that it had not succeeded with reben. perhaps reben would be a long while discovering a substitute. sheila hoped

he would not find one till the new year. she almost hoped he would never find one.

she was awfully sorry for poor vickery. he had suffered so cruelly, and she had suffered with him. perhaps he would give up play-writing now and take up some less

inhuman trade. to think that she had once dallied with the thought of marrying him! to play plays was bad enough, but to be the wife of a playwright—no, thank you!

better be the gambler’s wife of a less laborious gambler or the nurse to a moody lunatic under more restraint.

worse yet, sheila had narrowly escaped falling in love with an actor! they would have been mr. and mrs. traveling forever! mr. and mrs. never rest! to live in hotels

and railroad stations, sleeping-car berths, and dressing-rooms of about the same size; to put on a lot of sticky stuff and go out and parrot a few lines, then to

retire and grease out the paint, and stroll to a supper-room, and so to bed. to make an ambition of that! no, thank you! not on your jamais de la vie, never!

and thus having with a drowsy royalty effaced all her plans from her books, she burned her books. desdemona’s occupation was gone. she might as well get up. she

bathed and dressed and breakfasted with splendid deliberation, and then, the day proving to be fine and sunny and cool when she raised her tardy curtains, she decided

to go forth for a walk, the dignified saunter of a lady, and not the mad rush of a belated actress. it wanted yet an hour before she must make up for the matinée.

she had not walked long when she heard her name called from a motor-car checked at the curb. she turned to see eugene vickery waving his cap at her. bret winfield, at

the wheel, was bowing bareheaded. they invited her to go with them for a ride. it struck her as a providential provision of just what she would have wished for if she

had thought of it.

vickery stepped down to open the door for her, and, helping her in, stepped in after her. winfield reached back his hand to clasp hers, and vickery said:

“drive us about a bit, chauffeur.”

“yes, sir!” said winfield, touching his cap. and he lifted the car to a lively gait.

“where did you get the machine?” said sheila.

“it’s his—bret’s—mr. winfield’s,” said vickery. “he came down in it—to see that infernal play of mine. do you know, i think i’ve discovered one thing that’s

the matter with it. in that scene in the first act, you know, where—”

he rambled on with intense enthusiasm, but sheila was thinking of the man at the wheel. he was rich enough to own a car and clever enough to run it. as she watched he

guided it through a swarm of traffic with skill and coolness.

now and then winfield threw a few words over his left shoulder. they had nothing to do with things theatrical—just commonplace high spirits on a fine day. sheila did

like him ever so much.

by and by he drew up to the curb and got down, motioning to vickery with the thumb of authority. “i’m tired of letting you monopolize miss kemble, ’gene. i’m going

to ask her to sit up with me.”

“but i’m telling her about my play,” said vickery. “now, in the middle of the last act—”

“if you don’t mind,” said sheila, “i should like to ride awhile with mr. winfield. the air’s better.”

winfield opened the door for her, helped her down and in again, and resumed his place.

“see how much better the car runs!” he said.

and to sheila it seemed that it did run better. their chatter ran about as importantly as the engines, but it was cheerful and brisk.

every man has his ailment, at least one. the only flaw in winfield’s powerful make-up was the astigmatism that compelled him to wear glasses. sheila rather liked

them. they gave an intellectual touch to a face that had no other of the sort. besides, actor-people usually prefer a touch of what they call “character” to what

they call “a straight.”

winfield told sheila that his glasses had kept him from playing football, but had not hampered his work in the ’varsity crew. he could see as far as the spinal column

of the oarsman in front of him, and that was all he was supposed to see once the race began.

he explained that his glasses had fallen from his eyes when he stepped on the stage at leroy. that had been one reason why eldon had got home on him so easily.

evidently this unpaid account was still troubling him.

“i hate to owe a man a dollar or a kindness or a blow,” he said. “i’ve lost my chance to pay that man eldon what was due, and i’ll never get another chance. our

paths will never cross again, i’m afraid.”

“i hope not!” sheila cried.

“why?”

“because you’re both such powerful men. he was a football-player, you know.”

“oh, was he?”

“oh yes. and he keeps himself in trim. most actors do. they never know when they’ll have to appear bare-armed. and then they meet such awful people sometimes.”

“oh, do they? and you think he would whip me, eh?”

“oh no. i don’t think either of you could whip the other. but it would be terrible to have either of you hurt either of you.”

winfield laughed, but all he said was, “you’re a mighty nice girl.”

she laughed, “thanks.”

then both looked about guiltily to see if vickery were listening. nothing important had been said, but their hearts had been fencing, or at least feinting, at a sort

of flirtation.

vickery was gone.

“for heaven’s sake!” said sheila.

“he probably dropped out when we stopped some time ago to let that wagon pass.”

“i wonder why?” sheila said, anxiously.

“oh,” winfield laughed, “?’gene’s such an omni—om—he reads so much he’s probably read that two’s company and three’s a crowd.”

this was a trifle uncomfortable for sheila, so she said, “what time is it, please?”

“half past one, or worse,” said winfield, pointing with his toe to the auto-clock. “that’s usually slow.”

“good lord! i ought to be in the shop this minute. turn round and fly!”

they were far out in the country. winfield looked regretfully at the vista ahead. turning round in a narrow road was a slow and maddening process, and sheila’s nerves

grated like the clutch. once faced townward, they sped ferociously. she doubted if she would ever arrive alive. there were swoops and skids and flights of chickens and

narrow escapes from the murder of dogs who charged ferociously and vanished in a diminuendo of yelps.

there followed an exciting race with the voice of a motor-cycle coming up from the rear. winfield laughed it to scorn until sheila, glancing back, saw that it carried

a policeman.

“he’s waving to us. stop!”

“if i do we’ll never make it. i’ll put you in the theater on time if i go to jail for life.”

“no, no; i won’t get you into trouble. please stop. he looks like a nice policeman. i’ll tell him you’re a doctor and i’m a trained nurse.”

winfield slowed down, and the policeman came up, sputtering like his own blunderbuss. sheila tried to look like a trained nurse, but missed the costume and the make-

up. she began at once:

“oh, please, mr. officer, it’s all my fault. you see, the doctor has a dying patient, and i—i—”

“why, it’s sheila ke— miss kemble! ain’t you playin’ this afternoon?”

“oh yes, it’s me—and i ought to be, but i was detained, and that’s why—”

“well, you better hurry up or you’ll keep folks waitin’. my wife’s there this afternoon. i seen you myself last night.”

“did you? oh, thank you so much! good-by!”

as winfield’s car slid forward they heard the policeman’s voice: “better go kind o’ slow crossing fifth street. mcgonigle is stricter ’n i am.”

winfield was greatly impressed by the fame of his passenger. he carried calphurnia; no harm could come to him. they crossed fifth street at such a pace that the car-

tracks sent sheila aloft. as she came down she remembered officer mcgonigle. she saw that he or a vague film of him was saluting her with admiring awe. the grinding

toil of the stock actress has its perquisites, after all.

she made winfield let her out at the alley and ran with all her might. once more she was met at the stage door by the anxious eldon. but now she resented his presence.

his solicitude resembled espionage. but it was not he that had changed.

pennock was in a furious mood and scolded sheila roundly when she helped her into her costume at a speed a fireman would have envied. as she made up her face while

pennock concocted her hair, sheila was studying some new lines that vickery had determined to try out that afternoon.

the performance went excellently well. sheila was refreshed by her sleep and the forced ventilation her soul had had. she dined with vickery and winfield. vickery was

aflame with new ideas that had come to him in winfield’s car. he had dropped out, not to leave them alone, but to be alone with his precious thoughts.

sheila’s ambitions, however, were asleep. she was more interested in the silent admiration of winfield. the light on his glasses kept her from seeing his eyes, but

she felt that they were soft upon her, because his voice was gentle when he spoke the few words he said.

it irritated sheila to have to hurry back to the theater after dinner to repeat again the afternoon’s repetition. the moon seemed to call down the alley to her not to

give herself to the garish ache of the calcium; and the breeze had fingers twitching at her clothes and a voice that sang, “come walk with me.”

she played the play, but it irked her. when she left the theater at half past eleven she found winfield waiting, in his car. vickery was walking at her side, jabbering

about his eternal revisions. winfield offered to carry them to their hotels. he saw to it that he reached vickery’s first. when they had dropped jonah overboard

winfield asked sheila to take just a bit of the air for her health’s sake.

she hesitated only a moment. the need of a chaperon hardly occurred to her. she had been living a life of independence for months. she had no fear of winfield or of

anybody. had she not overpowered the ferocious reben? she consented—for the sake of her health.