At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the leader of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwood ceased talking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrison around to the box. "Now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to Drouet, in a tone which no one else could hear. On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the opening parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that Carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger's part were representing the principal roles in this scene. The professional, whose name was Patton, had little to recommend him outside of his assurance, but this at the present moment was most palpably needed. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat. The whole company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely spoken, and nothing more. It took all the hope and uncritical good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity by that unrest which is the agony of failure. Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that it would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward. After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the expression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the extreme, when Carrie came in. One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that she also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying: "And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock," but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was positively painful. "She's frightened," whispered Drouet to Hurstwood. The manager made no answer. She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny. "Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill." It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit. There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense of impending disaster, say, sadly: "I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, 'Call a maid by a married name.'"