It was a new world to Glory, and there was something tingling and electrical in the atmosphere about her. There were the shouts and curses of the scene-shifters on the stage, the laughing voices of the chorus girls going by the door, and all the multitudinous noises of the theatre before the curtain rises. Presently there was a rustle of silk, and two young ladies came bouncing into the room. One was tall and pink and white, like a scarlet runner, the other was little and dainty. They stared at Glory, and she was compelled to speak. “Miss Bellman, I presume?” “Ye mean Betty, down't ye?” said the tall lady, and at that moment Betty herself arrived. She was a plump person with a kind of vulgar comeliness, and Glory had a vague sense of having seen her before somewhere. “So ye've came,” she said, and she took possession of Glory straightway. “Help me off of my sealskin.” Glory did so. The others were similarly disrobed, and in a few moments their three ladyships were busy before the toilet tables with their grease and rose-pink and black pencils. Glory was taking down the hair of her stout ladyship, and her stout ladyship was looking at Glory in the glass. “Not a bad face, girls, eh?” The other two glanced at Glory approvingly. “Not bad,” they answered, and then hummed or whistled as they went on with their making-up. “Oh, _thank_ you,” said Glory, with a low courtesy, and everybody laughed. It was really very amusing. Suddenly it ceased to be so. “And what's it's nyme, my dear?” said the little lady. A sort of shame at using in this company the name that was sacred to home, to the old parson, and to John Storm, came creeping over Glory like a goosing of the flesh, and by the inspiration of a sudden memory she answered, “Gloria.” The little lady paused with the black pencil at her eyebrows, and said: “My! What a nyme for the top line of a bill!” “Ugh! Mykes me feel like Sundays, though,” said the tall lady with a shudder. “Irish, my dear?” “Something of that sort,” said Glory. “Brought up a laidy, I'll be bound?” “My father was a clergyman,” said Glory, “but----” A sudden peal of laughter stopped her, whereupon she threw up her head, and her eyes flashed: but her stout ladyship patted her hands and said: “No offence, Glo, but you re'lly mustn't--they're all clergymen's daughters, doncher know?” A sharp knock came to the door, followed by the first call of the call-boy. “Half-hour, ladies.” Then there was much bustle and some irritation in the dressing-room and the tuning up of the orchestra outside. The knock came again. “Curtain up, please.” The door was thrown open, the three ladies swept out--the tall one in tights, the little one in a serpentine skirt, the plump one in some fancy costume--and Glory was left to gather up the fragments, to listen to the orchestra, which was now in full power, to think of it all and to laugh.