“Has it gone?—_has_ it gone?” he gasped to the people round him; and he heard them say “Rather—rather!” perfunctorily, mendaciously too, as it struck him, and even with mocking laughter, the laughter of defeat and despair. Suddenly, though all this must have taken but a moment, Loder burst upon him from somewhere with a “For God’s sake don’t keep them, or they’ll _stop_!” “But I can’t go on for _that_!” Wayworth cried, in anguish; the sound seemed to him already to have ceased. Loder had hold of him and was shoving him; he resisted and looked round frantically for Violet Grey, who perhaps would tell him the truth. There was by this time a crowd in the wing, all with strange grimacing painted faces, but Violet was not among them and her very absence frightened him. He uttered her name with an accent that he afterwards regretted—it gave them, as he thought, both away; and while Loder hustled him before the curtain he heard some one say “She took her call and disappeared.” She had had a call, then—this was what was most present to the young man as he stood for an instant in the glare of the footlights, looking blindly at the great vaguely-peopled horseshoe and greeted with plaudits which now seemed to him at once louder than he deserved and feebler than he desired. They sank to rest quickly, but he felt it to be long before he could back away, before he could, in his turn, seize the manager by the arm and cry huskily—“Has it really gone—_really_?” Mr. Loder looked at him hard and replied after an instant: “The play’s all right!” Wayworth hung upon his lips. “Then what’s all wrong?” “We must do something to Miss Grey.” “What’s the matter with her?” “She isn’t _in_ it!” “Do you mean she has failed?” “Yes, damn it—she has failed.” Wayworth stared. “Then how can the play be all right?” “Oh, we’ll save it—we’ll save it.” “Where’s Miss Grey—where _is_ she?” the young man asked. Loder caught his arm as he was turning away again to look for his heroine. “Never mind her now—she knows it!”