"So do I!" she laughed. "I want the salary. But one never knows. This time to-morrow we may be waiting for the laughs that don't come. You can always pretty well hear Willie asking for them in the proper places. And when they don't come, it's such a sell that it makes me want to giggle myself. It might work! What the notices call my infectious laughter!" "Well, that's just what your laughter is." "They catch a word like that from one another--like mumps or measles. I'm always 'infectious;' Willie's always 'indefat'--'indefatig'--you know; I can never get to the end of it! Bramston used to be 'sterling' always; it made him just mad when he saw the word--used awful language!" She laughed, "infectiously," at the recollection. The hammering behind the curtain, which had been incessant during their talk, stopped. A sharp voice rang out, "Third Act!" There was a scurry of feet. Mr. Etheringham came in front, very hot and dishevelled; Mr. Beverley reappeared, only to bolt into his burrow in the pit. Miss Layard rose to her feet, carefully lifting the precious frock well clear of her ankles. "What do you mean by keeping me waiting like this, Mr. Etheringham?" she asked with elaborate haughtiness. But poor Mr. Etheringham was at the end of his tether--beyond repartee, even beyond fury. "For heaven's sake, Ayesha my dear, take hold of this damned third act, and pick it _up_!" he implored, with the old Weary-Titan lift of his hands. "There is a bit of avoirdupois about it, isn't there?" she remarked sympathetically. "All the same, it's suffered a sea-change under your accomplished hands, Langley." "Oh, get round, there's a good girl, or you'll keep the stage waiting." "What one weak woman can do!" she said, with a nod and a smile as she turned away. Mr. Etheringham sank into a stall and lay back--with his eyes shut. "I should like to have the blood of those stage-hands," Arthur heard him mutter. His eyes remained closed right through the act; he knew it too well to need to see it--every position, every speech, every inflection, every gesture. He did not speak either; only his hands now and then rose up above his head and dropped again gently. When at last the curtain fell, he opened his eyes, took off his hat, smoothed his hair, replaced the hat, and turned to Arthur with a sudden expression of peace and relief on his stormy countenance. "Now it's in the hands of the gods, Mr. Lisle," he said. Arthur was lighting a cigarette. In the intervals of the operation he asked, "Well, what do you think?" Mr. Etheringham looked at him with a tolerant smile. "Think? My dear fellow, to-morrow's the night! What on earth's the use of thinking?" CHAPTER XXVIII TAKING MEDICINE