Erb, again assisting, took Rosalind up the broad stone staircase; swing doors permitted them to go into the warm, talkative theatre. A few shouts of recognition were raised from various quarters as Erb went in, and he nodded his head in return, but he looked sternly at the direction whence a cry came of “Is that the missus, Erb?” and the chaffing question was not repeated. Down near the stage the orchestra made discordant sounds, the cornet blew a few notes of a frivolous air for practice. Erb bought a programme for Rosalind, and asked if anything else was required; but Rosalind, from a satin bag which hung from her wrist, produced a pair of early Victorian opera glasses, bearing an inscription addressed to her mother, “From a few Gallery Boys,” and said, “No, thank you,” with a smile that made his head spin round. “But would you mind,” she flushed as she leaned forward to whisper this, “would you mind telling Mr. Railton that I—I should _very_ much like to see him after the show?” At the stage door a postman had just called, and Erb, waiting for permission to go in whilst the door-keeper sorted the letters, could not help noticing that a violet envelope, in a feminine handwriting, was placed under the clip marked R; it was addressed to Lawrence Railton, Esquire. The doorkeeper gave permission with a jerk of the head, as though preferring not to compromise himself by speech, and Erb went up through the narrow corridor where the office and the dressing-rooms were situated. Cards were pinned on the door of the latter, and one of them bore, in eccentric type, the name of the gentleman for whom Rosalind had given him the message. A lady’s head came out cautiously from one of the other rooms and called in a shrill voice, “Mag-gie!” A middle-aged woman flew from somewhere in reply with a pair of shoes. Below, the orchestra started the overture of an elderly comic opera; a boy, in a cap, came along the corridor shouting, “Beginners, please!” “She got in everything for the entire week,” said a triumphant voice inside the room, “settled for my washing, cashed up for every blessed thing, and I’ve never paid the old girl a sou from that day to this. Hullo! what’s blown this in?” Two young men in the small room, and each making-up in front of a looking-glass; before them open tin cases, powder puffs, sticks of grease paint; bits of linen of many colours. On the walls previous occupiers had drawn rough caricatures: here and there someone had stuck an applauding newspaper notice, or a butterfly advertisement. Neither of the young men looked round as Erb came in, but each viewed his reflection in the looking-glass. “Name of Railton?” said Erb, inquiringly. “That’s me,” replied one of the two, still gazing into his looking-glass. “My name’s Barnes. I’m secretary to the R.C.A.S.” “Any connection with the press?” asked Mr. Railton, fixing a white whisker at the side of his floridly made-up face. “Not at present!”