At half-past seven that evening Marion Marlowe was at the theatre. She was a trifle apprehensive of what was coming. As she tripped around to the stage door every person on the street turned to look at her, for New York was almost mad at the moment with admiration for “Ila de Parloa.” It was not altogether the girl’s magnificent voice that had charmed them, but her beautiful face and natural, unaffected manner on the stage had been a great treat after a long siege of conceited actors and airy prima donnas. During her engagement so far she had sang only simple ballads, which were sandwiched in between the regular scenes in a manner known only to comic operas and vaudeville. But the quaint, modest dress of the charming singer, and, best of all, her freedom from conceit, had won the respect of even the critics, which is a thing not easily done by any singer. Marion felt strange in the atmosphere of the monstrous theatre, yet she was fast becoming accustomed to its shallow mockeries, and deep down in her soul there had always been a desire for fame, which now, for the first time in her short life, was within some possibility of gratification. “If it was not for Carlotta’s jealousy,” she whispered to herself, as she climbed the narrow stairs behind the scenes—“but what can I do if she chooses to injure me?” “Howdy, signorita!” called a voice as she reached the top of the stairs. “You are early, as usual, and yet you don’t ‘make up’ much, either. If it wasn’t for my everlasting complexion, I wouldn’t be here, you bet. I’d have spent another hour in bed wouldn’t you, Miss Kingsley?” The speaker was a chorus girl, whose name Marion did not know. She was standing in the doorway of a big dressing-room, which she shared with a dozen others. “Do you think so much ‘make-up’ is necessary?” asked Marion, pleasantly. “Somehow, I am always afraid of getting my nose too white and my ears too red. I do wish there wasn’t such a thing as having to use it!” “Oh, we’d all look like ghosts if we didn’t,” said the girl. “Those footlights make you ghastly if your face isn’t painted.” “It makes some people look like frights, anyway,” called another voice, shrilly. “It is just too funny to see some folks prink when they can’t be anything but scrawny and ugly, no matter how much they paint and whitewash!” The girl in the doorway glanced over her shoulder scornfully. “You wear ‘symmetricals’ yourself, Miss Impudence,” she said, tauntingly. “I may be scrawny around the shoulders, but my legs are all right, and legs are all that is wanted in the chorus nowadays.” “I thought it was voices that were desired,” said Marion, dryly; “but, then, I am new; I don’t know much about requirements.” “I notice you are mighty careful not to wear your dress short at either end,” called another voice. “What is the matter with your shape, Signorita Ila?” Marion Marlowe flushed a little, but did not reply, so the girl in the doorway promptly answered for her.