Sowinska dropped her eyes and silently left the room, but behind the door she paused and shook her fist threateningly. "You saint! Wait!" she hissed. When Janina reached the theater she found only Piesh, Topolski, and Glogowski present. Glogowski approached her with a smile, extending his hand. "Good morning. I was thinking about you yesterday; you must unfailingly thank me for that. . . ." "I do thank you! But I'm curious to know . . ." "I assure you I didn't think ill about you. . . . I didn't think about you as others of my sex would think about such beautiful women as you, no! May I croak if I did! I thought . . . 'Where does your strength come from?'" "No doubt from the same source as weakness comes from; it's inherent," answered Janina seating herself. "You must have some nice little dogma and with your mind fixed on that you go forward. That dogma has reddish-yellow hair, a yearly income of about ten thousand rubles, he wears binoculars and . . ." jested Topolski. "And . . . forget the rest of it! It's always time enough for nonsense, that never grows old," Glogowski interrupted Topolski. "You'll also drink with us, won't you, Miss Janina?" "Thank you! I don't drink." "But you must . . . if it be only to moisten your lips. It is the beginning of the funeral celebration over my play," joked Glogowski. "Exaggeration!" mumbled Piesh. "Well, we shall see! Come on, Mr. Piesh, Mr. Topolski, let's have another," cried Glogowski, pouring out the cognac. He smiled and joked continually, led the arriving actors to the buffet and seemed very lively, but one could see that under his forced gayety there was a hidden anxiety and doubt regarding the success of his play. On the veranda a noisy little revel had begun, where Glogowski was treating everybody, but the humors of all those present seemed to be partially dampened by the drizzling weather. Cabinski every now and then gazed up at the sky, took off his top hat and scratched his head with dissatisfaction. Pepa walked about as glum as an autumn day . . . Majkowska glared at Topolski with fiery eyes and seemed to have a great desire to create a scene, for her lips were pale and her eyes red, either from crying or sleeplessness. Glas also stalked about like a poisoned man after yesterday's fiasco and failed to utter a single one of his usual jokes. Razowiec was examining his tongue in a mirror and lamenting to Mrs. Piesh. Even Wawrzecki was not "in the proper situation," as he chose to describe his indisposition. "It is half-past twelve. . . . Come, let's begin to read the play," said Topolski, the stage-manager. A table was pushed out into the center of the stage, chairs were placed around it and Topolski, armed with a pencil, began to read.