The young actor was regarding her strangely; seemingly he wished to acknowledge this compliment but could find no suitable words. “Yes, you can blush and hem and haw,” went on his critic, “but any one knows me I’ll tell you I mean it when I talk that way--yes, sir, funnier than the cross-eyed man himself. My, I guess the neighbours’ll be talking soon’s they find out we got someone as important as you be in our spare-room--and, Mr. Armytage, I want you to give me a signed photograph of yourself, if you’ll be so good.” He escaped at last, dizzy from the maelstrom of conflicting emotions that had caught and whirled him. It had been impossible not to appear, and somehow difficult not to feel, gratified under this heartfelt praise. He had been bound to appear pleased but incredulous, even when she pronounced him superior, at times, to the cross-eyed man--though the word she used was “funnier.” Betrayed by his friends, stricken, disconsolate, in a panic of despair, he had yet seemed glad to hear that he had been “funny.” He flew to the sanctity of his room. Not again could he bear to be told that the acting which had been his soul’s high vision was a thing for merriment. He paced his room a long time, a restless, defenceless victim to recurrent visions of his shame. Implacably they returned to torture him. Reel after reel of the ignoble stuff, spawned by the miscreant, Baird, flashed before him; a world of base painted shadows in which he had been the arch offender. Again and again he tried to make clear to himself just why his own acting should have caused mirth. Surely he had been serious; he had given the best that was in him. And the groundlings had guffawed! Perhaps it was a puzzle he could never solve. And now he first thought of the new piece. This threw him into fresh panic. What awful things, with his high and serious acting, would he have been made to do in that? Patiently, one by one, he went over the scenes in which he had appeared. Dazed, confused, his recollection could bring to him little that was ambiguous in them. But also he had played through Hearts on Fire with little suspicion of its low intentions. He went to bed at last, though to toss another hour in fruitless effort to solve this puzzle and to free his eyes of those flashing infamies of the night. Ever and again as he seemed to become composed, free at last of tormenting visions, a mere subtitle would flash in his brain, as where the old mother, when he first punished her insulter, was made by the screen to call out, “Kick him on the knee-cap, too!” But the darkness refreshed his tired eyes, and sun at last brought him a merciful outlet from a world in which you could act your best and still be funnier than a cross-eyed man.