"She's alive," said Reeser. "She'll never make a show girl, and she's got no voice to speak of. But she's got a personality that climbs right over the footlights. I'm going to engage her for the rest of the season." When the play was over, Nance, struggling into Birdie's complicated finery in the dressing-room below, wondered how she could ever manage to exist until the next performance. Her one consolation was the immediate prospect of seeing Mac Clarke and the mysterious Monte to whom Birdie had said she must be nice. As she pinned on a saucy fur toque in place of her own cheap millinery, she viewed herself critically in the glass. Beside the big show girls about her, she felt ridiculously young and slender and insignificant. "I believe I'll put on some paint!" she said. Birdie laughed. "What for, Silly? Your cheeks are blazing now. You'll have time enough to paint 'em when you've been dancing a couple of years." They were among the last to leave the dressing-room, and when they reached the stage entrance, Birdie spied two figures. "There they are!" she whispered to Nance, "the fat one is Monte, the other--" Nance had an irresistible impulse to run away. Now that the time had come, she didn't want to meet those sophisticated young men in their long coats and high hats. She wouldn't know how to act, what to say. But Birdie had already joined them, and was turning to say airily: "Shake hands with my friend Miss Millay, Mr. Clarke--and, I say, Monte, what's your other name?" The older of the young men laughed good-naturedly. "Monte'll do," he said. "I'm that to half the girls in town." Mac's bright bold eyes scanned Nance curiously. "Where have I seen you before?" he asked instantly. "Don't you recognize her?" said Monte. "She's the little bear! I'd know that smile in ten thousand!" Nance presented him with one on the spot, out of gratitude for the diversion. She was already sharing Birdie's wish that no reference be made to Calvary Alley or the factory. They had no place in this rose-colored world. Monte and the two girls had descended the steps to the street when the former looked over his shoulder. "Why doesn't Mac come on?" he asked. "Who is the old party he is arguing with?" "Oh, Lord! It's old man Demry," exclaimed Birdie in exasperation. "He plays in the orchestra. Full of dope half of the time. Why don't Mac come on and leave him?" But the old musician was not to be left. He pushed past Mac and, staggering down the steps, laid his hand on Nance's arm. "You must come home with me, Nancy," he urged unsteadily. "I want to talk to you. Want to tell you something." "See here!" broke in Mac Clarke, peremptorily, "is this young lady your daughter?" Mr. Demry put his hand to his dazed head and looked from one to the other in troubled uncertainty.