There was a long, rigid silence. "Joan--when?--where?" Prosper's throat clicked. "I knew it before you left. I couldn't tell you because you were so changed. I worked all winter. It--it was born on an awful cold March night. I think the woman let it--made it--die. She wanted me to work for her during the summer and she thought I would be glad if the child didn't live. She used to say I was 'in trouble' and she'd be glad if she could 'help me out.'... It was what I was planning to live for ... that child." During the heavy stillness following Joan's dreadful, brief account of birth and death, Prosper went through a strange experience. It seemed to him that in his soul something was born and died. Always afterwards there was a ghost in him--the father that might have been. "I can't talk any more," said Joan faintly. "Won't you please go?" CHAPTER VIII AGAINST THE BARS Jasper Morena had stood for an hour in a drafty passage of that dirty labyrinth known vaguely to the public as "behind the scenes," listening to the wearisome complaints of a long-nosed young actor. It was the sixth of such conversations that he had held that day: to begin with, there had been a difficulty between a director and the leading man. Morena's tact was still complete; he was very gentle to the long-nosed youth; but the latter, had he been capable of seeing anything but himself, must have noticed that his listener's face was pale and faintly lined. "Yes, my boy, of course, that's reasonable enough. I'll do what I can." "I don't make extravagant demands, you see," the young man spread down and out his hands, quivering with exaggerated feeling; "I ask only for decent treatment, what my own self-respect ab-so-lute-ly demands." Morena put a hand on his shoulder and walked beside him. "Did you ever stop to think," he said with his charming smile, "that the other fellow is thinking and saying just the same thing? Now, this chap that has, as you put it, got your goat, why, he came to me himself this morning, and, word for word, he said of you just precisely what you have just said of him to me. Odd, isn't it?" Again the young actor stopped for one of his gestures, hands up this time. "But, my God, sir! Is there such a thing as honesty? He couldn't accuse me of--" "Well, he thought he could. However, I do get your point of view and I think we can fix it up for you so that you'll get off with your self-respect entirely intact. I'll talk to George to-morrow. You're worth the bother. Good-afternoon." The young man bowed, his air of tragic injury softened to one of tragic self-appreciation. Worth the bother, indeed! Morena left him at the top of the dingy stairs down which the manager fled to an alley at one side of the theater, where his car was waiting for him. He stood for a while with his foot on the step and his hand on the door, looking rather blankly at the gray, cold wall and the scurrying whirlwinds of dust and paper.