“I have n’t enough individuality here to make it worth while,” replied Joyce with a shrug of the shoulders. The girl did not quite understand, but she caught enough of his drift to perceive that he was not going to retaliate. Possibly she thought him a poor-spirited fellow. “Oh, well--if you like being insulted--” she said, turning away toward a group of girls. Joyce did not attempt to remonstrate. What did it matter whether a coxcomb had cursed him? What did it matter, either, whether he had fallen in Miss Stevens’s estimation? In fact, what did anything matter, so long as starvation was not staring you in the face, or your companion was not pointing at the trace of black arrows? He turned also and joined in desultory whispering with McKay and Blake. At the end of the first act, men and women went off at different sides to their dressing-rooms. It was only during a wait in the second act that he found himself next to Miss Stevens again. “Are you going to see me home again tonight after the performance?” she asked. “If you will allow me,” replied Joyce. “I’m sorry I was short with you,” she said, awkwardly. “Oh, it was nothing.” The polite indifference in his tone rather piqued her. She was naturally a plain, anaemic girl and the heavy make-up of grease-paint did not render her more attractive at close quarters. The knowledge of this irritated her the more. “You don’t seem to care about anything.” “I don’t much,” said Joyce. At that moment the leading lady came off the stage and passed by them as they stood leaning against the iron railings of the staircase. She was wearing the minimum of costume allowed by Celestial etiquette, and looked very fresh and charming. “Oh, you are Mr. Joyce, aren’t you?” she said, pausing at the top of the stairs; and, as Joyce bowed,--“Some one told me you were a friend of Yvonne Latour’s.” “Yes,” said Joyce, “I have known her for a very long time.” “How is she? I have n’t seen her for ages.” She moved down a couple of steps, so Joyce had to lean over the balustrade to reply. “She’s a dear little creature. I used to know her while she was living with that wretch of a husband of hers,” said the lady, looking up. “He’s dead, or something, is n’t he?” “Yes, thank goodness,” said Joyce, with more warmth perhaps than he was aware of; for she smiled and replied:-- “You seem to look upon it as a personal favour on the part of Providence.” “I think it is a personal boon to all Madame Latour’s friends.” “Oh, I am delighted,” she said, with a touch of raillery. “If ever there was a marriage that ought to have been labelled ‘made in heaven,’ that was one.” “Yes, it was a very cheap imitation of native goods,” replied Joyce, with a smile. “Well, if you were going to meet her soon, I should ask you to remember me to her; but as we are on a long tour--” “I shall be writing shortly,” he interposed. “Then that will do. Good-night, Mr. Joyce.”