"Having no experience to guide me, I am unable to answer your question," was the somewhat curt reply. "Unable?" repeated the girl, all her respectful admiration writ large upon her face. "You mean----" "I mean," he interrupted, "that I am not famous; that now I never shall be! I started out meaning to--to win fame, but I--missed the way." He paused a moment, then went on, bitterly: "Question me about notoriety, Miss Lawton, and no man alive can give you more authentic information as to the method of its creation, its staying power, and its value. But I know not fame! If I died to-morrow I'd die like a dog--so far as memory or renown is concerned. Learn early to distinguish between the sound, noise, and rumor of notoriety and the credit, honor, and excellence of fame!" "I'll try," the girl answered, simply, and then she added, gently: "I'm sorry you missed the way!" A dimness came into the man's eyes as he responded, briefly, "Thank you!" and gazed at the picture that Sybil had returned to. "Crowned queen!" she repeated. "Of course if you give me the chance, Mr. Thrall, I shall work hard for work's own sake, as well as to be a bread-winner. But all the time down in my heart I shall hope and hope that some day, in years to come, I may win a crown like that!" The actor laughed derisively. "A pasteboard crown," he cried, "so thinly covered with gold-leaf you dare not try to burnish it!" "You do not mean that, Mr. Thrall!" "I do mean it! A cheap and gaudy thing, the outside blazing with rare jewels, made of glass! Inside, paper, glue--a pasteboard crown! A thing worthless, meaningless!" "No!" protested the girl; "your words are very cruel! I do not think you rightly judge the value of the Crown Dramatic, for even if it were but pasteboard it would not be worthless or meaningless! It would still be a sign, a symbol, of artistic triumph, of true excellence, of the world's approval!" "You are obstinate," he declared. "And you are not grateful to your profession, I'm afraid," she said, reproachfully; then she hurriedly added: "I beg your pardon! Of course you know of what you speak, and I am very presuming in my ignorance, but"--she clasped her hands tightly above the rose on her breast--"I long to wear that crown some day." A few red petals fell from the rose and were caught in Thrall's hand. He glanced at Sybil's rapt young face--his resolve was taken. "You shall have your wish," he said. "I will place the crown upon your head; only promise not to reproach me when you find for yourself that it is only pasteboard!" CHAPTER XIII THE FORMING OF THE CHRYSALIS That Stewart Thrall wasted no time when once a plan was settled upon and a thing seriously undertaken may be gathered from a letter written in a Western city by the manager of a stock company playing a summer season in the theatre attached to a soldiers' home. The park coaxed people from the city, and the theatre then drew them from the park to the play.