"Treat us to a whiskey, Director, and I will tell you something," Glas began anew. "Well, what is it?" "That the manager will treat us to another. . . ." "My funny sir, your belly grows at the expense of your wit . . . you are beginning to prate like a fool," remarked Wladek. "Only for fools . . ." Glas maliciously thrust back at Wladek and retired behind the scenes. "John!" came the voice of the director's wife from the veranda. Cabinski went out to meet her. She was a tall, stout woman with a face that still retained traces of great beauty, now carefully preserved with paint; she had coarse features, large eyes, narrow lips, and a very low forehead. Her dress was of an exaggerated youthful style and color, so that from afar she gave the impression of being a young woman. She was very proud of her director-husband, of her dramatic talent, and of her children, of which she had four. In real life she was fond of playing the role of a matron occupied only with her home and the upbringing of her children, while in truth she was nothing but a comedienne, both in life and behind the scenes. On the stage she impersonated dramatic mothers and all the elder, unhappy women, never understanding her parts, but acting them, nevertheless, with fervor and pathos. She was a terror to her servants, to her own children, and to young actresses whom she suspected of possessing talents. She had a shrewish temper which she masked before others with an exaggerated calm and feigned weakness. "Good morning, gentlemen!" . . . she called, leaning with a careless attitude on her husband's arm. The company thronged around her, Majkowska greeting her with an effusive kiss. "How charming Madame Directress looks to-day," remarked Glas. "Your vision must have improved, for the directress always looks charming!" interposed Wladek. "How is your health? . . . Yesterday's performance must have taxed your strength." "You played superbly! . . . We all stood behind the scenes in rapt attention." "The critics were all weeping. I saw Zarski wiping his eyes with his handkerchief." "After sneezing . . . he has a bad catarrh," called someone from the side. "The public was fascinated and swept off its feet in the third act . . . they arose in their chairs." "That's because they wanted to run away from such a treat," came the mocking voice again. "How many bouquets did you receive, Madame Directress?" "Ask the director, he paid the bill." "Ah, Mr. Counselor, you are unbearable to-day!" cried the directress in a sweet voice, although almost pale with rage, for all the actors were growing red in the face in their effort to keep from laughing. "It's intended as a kindness. . . . All the rest of them are saying pretty things, let me say something sensible." "You are an impertinent man, Mr. Counselor! . . . How can you say such things? . . ."