Yet of all the actors trembling behind the scenes, it is possible that Hampstead was the very coolest. He had been the most perturbed, the most distraught; but this counter-disturbance made his own distressing situation forgotten. No eyes were riveted on him now. No thoughts were on him and the terrible humiliation he had publicly endured or the wretched failure he was going to make. The best, the most experienced, were in the most complete distress—clear out of themselves. The leading man had become angry, had lost his lines, and did not know what he was saying. "Stanley’s lost; he’s ad-libbing to beat the band," John heard Page remark. _Ad-libbing_! It was a new word. In the midst of all this confusion, John took note of it and next day learned of Parks that it was a stage-participle made from _ad libitum_. An actor ad-libbing was an actor talking on and on to fill space in some kind of a stage wait or because, as with Stanley, he had forgotten his lines. Neumeyer, the "angel", came in from the front and added his white, agitated face to the awed groups standing about the wings. "They’ve lost half the first act," he groaned, through chattering teeth. "Even when they wear ’emselves out, the piece is ruined because the people down-stairs have missed the key to the plot." "Your cue is coming," bawled Page to John. "Don’t worry, though," croaked Halson in Hampstead’s ear, still fearful that his man would collapse. "The piece is going so rotten you can’t make it any worse. Cut in!" But to his surprise, Hampstead’s eye glinted with the light of battle. "Worry?" he exclaimed excitedly. "Watch me. I’m going to get ’em!" Halson gazed in pure pity. "Get ’em," he gutturaled. "You poor, God-forsaken amateur!" But the cue had come. Colonel Delaro, his sword clattering, his buttons flashing, his tall figure aglow with color, leaped through the entrance and took the center of the stage—so clumsily that he trod on Stanley’s favorite corn and hooked a spur in the mantilla trailing from the arm of Miss Constance Beverly, the mislaid daughter of a millionaire yachtsman; but nevertheless, Hampstead was on. He had seized the center of the stage and he filled it full, as with an ostentatious gesture, he swept off his gold lace cap before Miss Beverly. "What star’s this?" shrieked a voice on one side the gallery. "No star at all. It’s a comet!" bawled a man from the other side, cupping his hands to carry his second-hand wit around the auditorium.