Margaret became a horror to herself. At times it seemed to her that she was in the way of fairly losing her own identity. It mattered little that Camille and Jack were very kind to her, that they showed her the nice things which her terrible earnings had enabled them to have. She sat in her two chairs--the two chairs proved a most successful advertisement--with her two kid-cushiony hands clenched in her pink spangled lap, and she suffered agony of soul, which made her inner self stern and terrible, behind that great pink mask of face. And nobody realized until one sultry day when the show opened at a village in a pocket of green hills--indeed, its name was Greenhill--and Sydney Lord went to see it. Margaret, who had schooled herself to look upon her audience as if they were not, suddenly comprehended among them another soul who understood her own. She met the eyes of the man, and a wonderful comfort, as of a cool breeze blowing over the face of clear water, came to her. She knew that the man understood. She knew that she had his fullest sympathy. She saw also a comrade in the toils of comic tragedy, for Sydney Lord was in the same case. He was a mountain of flesh. As a matter of fact, had he not been known in Greenhill and respected as a man of weight of character as well as of body, and of an old family, he would have rivaled Margaret. Beside him sat an elderly woman, sweet-faced, slightly bent as to her slender shoulders, as if with a chronic attitude of submission. She was Sydney's widowed sister, Ellen Waters. She lived with her brother and kept his house, and had no will other than his. Sydney Lord and his sister remained when the rest of the audience had drifted out, after the privileged hand-shakes with the queen of the show. Every time a coarse, rustic hand reached familiarly after Margaret's, Sydney shrank. He motioned his sister to remain seated when he approached the stage. Jack Desmond, who had been exploiting Margaret, gazed at him with admiring curiosity. Sydney waved him away with a commanding gesture. “I wish to speak to her a moment. Pray leave the tent,” he said, and Jack obeyed. People always obeyed Sydney Lord. Sydney stood before Margaret, and he saw the clear crystal, which was herself, within all the flesh, clad in tawdry raiment, and she knew that he saw it. “Good God!” said Sydney, “you are a lady!” He continued to gaze at her, and his eyes, large and brown, became blurred; at the same time his mouth tightened. “How came you to be in such a place as this?” demanded Sydney. He spoke almost as if he were angry with her. Margaret explained briefly. “It is an outrage,” declared Sydney. He said it, however, rather absently. He was reflecting. “Where do you live?” he asked. “Here.” “You mean--?” “They make up a bed for me here, after the people have gone.” “And I suppose you had--before this--a comfortable house.”