At once the fat boy whom she detested crossed the indefinite line dividing the scene from "off-stage," and leering insolently, spoke the opening line of the play. Seething with indignation, the girl looked up and in cutting accents shot her reply at him. She was pleased to surprise a look of dumb amazement in his eyes. At all events, she had succeeded in letting _him_ know just how she felt toward him! And this success inspired her to further efforts. She rattled through the remainder of the scene with the manner of a youthful termagant. When she had finished, Wilbrow said nothing beyond: "Again, please." The demand served only to deepen her resentment, and the second repetition differed not materially from the first. Ceasing to speak, she flounced away, but Wilbrow's voice brought her back. "Very good, Miss Thursday," he said mildly--"very good indeed. But why--in the name of Mike!--if you _could_ do it--why wouldn't you until now?" "Because," Joan stammered--"because--!" But she didn't dare say what she wished to, and checked her tongue in a fit of sulks more eloquent than any words she could have found. Wilbrow waited an instant, then laughed quite cheerfully. "The usual reason, eh? I might have guessed you had a sure-'nough one concealed about you.... That's all for today. Tomorrow morning at nine." Privately pondering this experience, Joan surprised its secret, and drew from it a conclusion that was to have an important influence upon her professional future: in order to act convincingly, she must herself feel the emotions accredited to her part. As applied to her individual temperament, at that stage of its development, this rule had all the inflexibility of an axiom. Others might--as others do--act in obedience to the admonitions of their intelligence: Joan could at that stage act only according to the promptings of her emotional self. So she encouraged herself to hate Wilbrow with all her heart, to despise him without ceasing night or day; no charitable thought of the manager was suffered to gain access to her humour at any hour. And so admirably did she succeed in impregnating her mind with virulent dislike of the man, that she afforded him no end of amusement. She made a point of coming to the rehearsals early enough to infuriate herself with contemplation of him in the flesh; and of walking up and down, before and between her scenes, thinking evil of him. The twinkle with which his eyes followed her, in place of their erstwhile calm indifference or resignation, worked only to intensify her rancour. Curiously enough, a clear comprehension of the illogical absurdity of it all made her temper even more bitter. One day just before the final rehearsals, Wilbrow, meeting her at the stage-door, planted his slender body squarely in her way. "Good morning!" he said cheerfully, with a semi-malicious smile. "My congratulations, Miss Thursday! You're doing nobly." "Thanks," Joan said curtly, pausing perforce.