"Blaine!" he said abruptly in a chilling voice to one of the minor actors--"don't you _know_ there's a window over there--up left centre?" The player thus addressed, who had been idling purposelessly near the centre of the stage, looked up with a face of blank surprise. "Sure," he said--"sure I know it." "That's something, at least!" Wilbrow commented acidly. "I'm glad you remember it. If I'm not mistaken, I've reminded you of that window twice every day since Monday." "Yes," agreed the other with a look of painful concentration; "I guess that's right, too." "And yet you can't remember what I've told you just as often--that I want you to be up there, looking out of the window, when _Sylvia_ enters!" The actor turned out expostulatory palms. "But, Mr. Wilbrow, what for? I don't see--" "Because," the producer interrupted incisively, "the stage directions indicate it; because the significance of this scene requires you to be there, looking out, unaware of _Sylvia's_ entrance; because you look better there; because it dresses the stage; because you're in the way anywhere else; because I--God help me!--because _I--want--you--to--be--there_!" A smothered giggle broke from a group of players technically off-stage. Wilbrow glared icily toward that quarter. "Yes, I know," Blaine agreed intelligently. "But how do I _get_ there?" The front legs of Wilbrow's chair rapped the boards smartly as he jumped up. In silence, he grasped Blaine's arm and with a slightly exaggerated melodramatic stride propelled him to the indicated spot, released him, and stood back. "Walk!" he announced with an inimitable gesture of tolerant contempt; and went back to his chair. Not a line of his face had changed. He sat down, nodded to the leading woman. "All right, Mary," he said; and to another actor: "Now, the cue for _Sylvia_, please!" Joan shivered a little. Matthias did not come in until after the girl had finished her part in the afternoon rehearsal. She caught sight of him in the darkened auditorium just as she went off; and hurried from the house in tremulous dread. But a meeting was inevitable; and that evening, just before the dinner hour, found her reluctantly knuckling the door of the back-parlour. The voice of Matthias bade her enter, and she drew upon all her scant store of courage as she turned the knob. To her immense relief he was not alone. Rideout and Moran, the scene painter, were in consultation with Matthias over two small model stages set with painted pasteboard scenery. Matthias greeted her with a preoccupied smile and nod. "Oh, good evening, Miss Thursday. More 'script, eh? Thank you." Silently Joan gave him the manuscript and left the room. But the door had no sooner closed than it was re-opened and again closed. She turned to face this dreaded crisis. His smile was friendly and pleasant if a trace uncertain. He made as if to offer his hand, and thought better of it. "Oh, Miss Thursday.... I sent you a note...."