"That is the very thing poor Mr. Roberts bemoans. He says the artist in him has been suffocated by his commercially won money. He says that Mr. Thrall will himself admit that his acting to-day is not as convincingly true and fine as it was five years ago. Because then he was all enthusiasm, and believed in the dignity and beauty of the art of acting, while to-day he regards it as a means to an end--and that end, money. Poor Mr. Roberts, he seems to know so much about the profession, and yet only plays such small parts. It must be very humiliating. His lip curled so contemptuously when he told me he was going to play the Apothecary. Do you know, Dorrie, I have a suspicion about him, poor man! He always, always smells of cloves, and twice yesterday when he pulled out his handkerchief some cloves fell to the floor, and I said: 'I believe you have a corner on cloves, Mr. Roberts.' And, oh, his poor face turned so red, and I added, hurriedly, 'Don't you think the excessive use of cloves may be injurious to the digestion?' 'Possibly,' he answered, satirically, 'and doubtless still more injurious to the reputation.' I saw his trembling hands; I recalled the watery look his eyes sometimes have; his rapid, almost incoherent speech as opposed to his long silences; and, all at once, I suspected him of drinking." "Sybil!" exclaimed Dorothy in a shocked voice, "and you have been under his care, and may be again, and he----" "Has acted like some kind and patient old relative or friend of the family; don't let us forget that. Besides, I may be wrong and ungrateful in suspecting such a thing, but--but it would explain why Mr. Thrall, whom he so admires, only trusts him with such poor, small parts." Sybil had been nursing her right elbow in her left hand while speaking, and now suddenly exclaimed: "Oh, where's the arnica bottle? I can't bear this last bruise--it's the worst one yet!" "The bottle is on the wash-stand behind the ewer, but I'm afraid it's nearly empty, for Lena fairly baptized me with it that day of the----" "Circus?" put in Sybil. "Just look, Dorrie." She pushed up her loose sleeve, and her sister gave a cry of pity at sight of a cruel black bruise on that most sensitive spot--the elbow. "And your poor shoulder only yesterday?" "And my poor knees only last week!" ruefully groaned Sybil, tenderly sopping some arnica dregs upon the bruised member. "Oh, those black knees!" giggled Dorothy, "they looked as if you had knelt in the coal cellar!" "You heartless little beast!" cried Sybil. "See here, if you laugh at my professional troubles and ensuing physical pains--I'll----" "You can't pound me," triumphed Dorothy, "my arm is too weak!" "No, but I can do worse! Lena has fully informed you of the horrors that follow upon 'calling a maid by a married name,' and the certainty that said maid will never have a married name to be called by, so Mrs.--Mrs.----"