At eight the following morning he was made up in a large dressing room by a grumbling extra who said that it was a dog’s life plastering grease paint over the maps of dubs. He was presently on Stage Four in the prescribed evening regalia for gentlemen. He found the cabaret set, a gilded haunt of pleasure with small tables set about an oblong of dancing floor. Back of these on three sides were raised platforms with other tables, and above these discreet boxes, half masked by drapery, for the seclusion of more retiring merry-makers. The scene was deserted as yet, but presently he was joined by another early comer, a beautiful young woman of Spanish type with a thin face and eager, dark eyes. Her gown was glistening black set low about her polished shoulders, and she carried a red rose. So exotic did she appear he was surprised when she addressed him in the purest English. “Say, listen here, old timer! Let’s pick a good table right on the edge before the mob scene starts. Lemme see--” She glanced up and down the rows of tables. “The cam’ras’ll be back there, so we can set a little closer, but not too close, or we’ll be moved over. How ‘bout this here? Let’s try it.” She sat, motioning him to the other chair. Even so early in his picture career did he detect that in facing this girl his back would be to the camera. He hitched his chair about. “That’s right,” said the girl, “I wasn’t meaning to hog it. Say, we was just in time, wasn’t we?” Ladies and gentlemen in evening dress were already entering. They looked inquiringly about and chose tables. Those next to the dancing space were quickly filled. Many of the ladies permitted costly wraps of fur or brocade to spill across the backs of their chairs. Many of the gentlemen lighted cigarettes from gleaming metal cases. There was a lively interchange of talk. “We better light up, too,” said the dark girl. Merton Gill had neglected cigarettes and confessed this with some embarrassment. The girl presented an open case of gold attached to a chain pendent from her girdle. They both smoked. On their table were small plates, two wine glasses half filled with a pale liquid, and small coffee-cups. Spirals of smoke ascended over a finished repast. Of course if the part called for cigarettes you must smoke whether you had quit or not. The places back of the prized first row were now filling up with the later comers. One of these, a masterful-looking man of middle age--he would surely be a wealthy club-man accustomed to command tables--regarded the filled row around the dancing space with frank irritation, and paused significantly at Merton’s side. He seemed about to voice a demand, but the young actor glanced slowly up at him, achieving a superb transition--surprise, annoyance, and, as the invader turned quickly away, pitying contempt. “Atta boy!” said his companion, who was, with the aid of a tiny gold-backed mirror suspended with the cigarette case, heightening the crimson of her full lips.