But that's the way it is. Sometimes I'm the butt as well as the pet of the dressing room, and considering all the breaks I get I shouldn't mind. I smiled at Sid and went on tiptoes and necked out my head and kissed him on a powdery cheek just above an aromatic mustache. Then I wiped the smile off my face and said, "Okay, Siddy, play Macbeth as Little Lord Fauntleroy or Baby Snooks if you want to. I'll never squeak again. But the Elizabeth prologue's still an anachronism. And--this is the thing I came to tell you, Siddy--Miss Nefer's not getting ready for any measly prologue. She's set to play Queen Elizabeth all night and tomorrow morning too. Whatever you think, she doesn't know we're doing _Macbeth_. But who'll do Lady Mack if she doesn't? And Martin's not dressing for Malcolm, but for the Son of the Last of the Mohicans, I'd say. What's more--" You know, something I said must have annoyed Sid, for he changed his mood again in a flash. "Shut your jaw, you crook brained cat, and begone!" he snarled at me. "Here's curtain time close upon us, and you come like a wittol scattering your mad questions like the crazed Ophelia her flowers. Begone, I say!" "Yessir," I whipped out softly. I skittered off toward the door to the stage, because that was the easiest direction. I figured I could do with a breath of less grease-painty air. Then, "Oh, Greta," I heard Martin call nicely. He'd changed his levis for black tights, and was stepping into and pulling up around him a very familiar dress, dark green and embroidered with silver and stage-rubies. He'd safety-pinned a folded towel around his chest--to make a bosom of sorts, I realized. He armed into the sleeves and turned his back to me. "Hook me up, would you?" he entreated. Then it hit me. They had no actresses in Shakespeare's day, they used boys. And the dark green dress was so familiar to me because-- "Martin," I said, halfway up the hooks and working fast--Miss Nefer's costume fitted him fine. "You're going to play--?" "Lady Macbeth, yes," he finished for me. "Wish me courage, will you Greta? Nobody else seems to think I need it." * * * * * I punched him half-heartedly in the rear. Then, as I fastened the last hooks, my eyes topped his shoulder and I looked at our faces side by side in the mirror of his dressing table. His, in spite of the female edging and him being at least eight years younger than me, I think, looked wise, poised, infinitely resourceful with power in reserve, very very real, while mine looked like that of a bewildered and characterless child ghost about to scatter into air--and the edges of my charcoal sweater and skirt, contrasting with his strong colors, didn't dispel that last illusion. "Oh, by the way, Greta," he said, "I picked up a copy of _The Village Times_ for you. There's a thumbnail review of our _Measure for Measure_, though it mentions no names, darn it. It's around here somewhere...."