A man in the pit said "Hush!" but several persons giggled, and the humourist was stimulated to further witticisms. Other humourists began to envy him his successes; as the piece proceeded, the interruptions were frequent. Once the low comedian attempted a repartee, but it came too late in the evening to turn the scale; the malcontents had grown spiteful, and as a rejoinder he was hissed. His companions stared at one another haggardly. "Behind," they stood quaking, dreading the cues that would recall them to the stage. At every exit they came off gasping, "The brutes! the pigs! Oh, what a _wicked_ house it is!" The "house" would have been astonished at the emotion displayed, at the "extraordinary sensitiveness of such people." To the Stalls there were "Just a few noisy young fellows upstairs who made jokes." Indeed it seemed a long time between the jokes to the Stalls; they wore an air of superior detachment, but they were secretly amused. Only Rosalind understood. Rosalind felt faint. Miss Lascelles had been accepted by the Balcony while they were still good humoured, and she was among those who escaped contumely; but Miss Jinman's record availed her little. Derisive cheers greeted her every entrance, and a lifetime on the boards could not save her from the sickness of the senses which attacks a player who is being "guyed." As for Miss Vavasour, she trembled as if she had ague when a youth mimicked her high notes in her solo, and on her bloodless face, while she sang, the make-up stood out in patches, like paint on the cheeks of a corpse. At the conclusion of the song she clung hysterically to Tattie Lascelles in the wings. When the end was reached, the Audience rose murmuring that it was a "silly piece," and "not worth going to"--they "shouldn't think it would be a success!" No one but Rosalind suspected the despair that was hidden by the curtain. She made her way to the stage-door. Tedious as the performance had been, a number of young men had preceded her, and were assembling to address the chorus ladies when they came out. (Thirty were waiting there that night when the Chorus came out at last.) An old woman--a dresser--was hurrying in with two glasses containing whisky from the refreshment room. One of the young men asked her jauntily if she would take a message for him to "the sixth girl on the right." She said she was in a hurry, and pushed the door open. As the door-keeper wasn't there, to be obstructive, Rosalind followed her inside.