“He turned over the pages weakly; then he began to read. And I—I sat up as if I’d been stung. At last everything was clear: the continual visits to the theatre—everything. The part of all others which they had selected to prove her ability, was the love-scene between Molly Travers and myself in the third act of ‘John Pendlesham’s Wife. . . .’” For a while there was silence, while the Actor thoughtfully lit another cigarette. “This unknown child,” he went on after a moment, “who had acted a little in amateur theatricals, had deliberately challenged London’s greatest emotional actress in her most marvellous success before, Heaven help us, _me_—of all people. I suppose if I was writing a story I should say that she triumphed; that as I sat in that bare and hideous room I realised that before me was genius—a second and greater Molly; that from that moment her foot was set on the ladder of fame, and there was no looking back.” The Actor laughed a little sadly. “Unfortunately, I’m not writing a story, I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how I sat through the next twenty minutes. It was the most ghastly caricature of Molly that I have ever thought of; the more ghastly because it was so intensely unintentional. Every little gesture was faithfully copied; every little trick and mannerism had been carefully learnt by heart. And this, as I say, to me who acted with that divine genius every night. God! it was awful. That marvellous line of Molly’s, when, standing in the centre of the stage facing me across the table, she said: ‘Then you don’t want me back?’ that line which was made marvellous merely through the consummate restraint with which she said it, sounded from this poor child like a parlour-maid giving notice. “And then, at last it was over, and I realised I had to say something. They were both staring at me, hope shining clear in the girl’s eyes and pride in the man’s. “‘She’s great, isn’t she, Mr. Trayne?’ he said. ‘I’ve not had the privilege of seeing you and Miss Travers in the part—but I feel that now—why,’ he gave a little shaky laugh, ‘that it’s hardly necessary.’ “You see,” said the Actor slowly, “that was the devil of it all. They were both so utterly certain, especially the man. The difficulty had been to get me there; after that it had been easy. I glanced at the poor fellow in the bed, and his thoughts were plain to read. No more grinding poverty, no more unfurnished bed-sitting rooms, and—fame for the woman he loved! And then he spoke again. “‘I’m such a hopeless crock, Mr. Trayne, and she’—he took one of her hands in both his own—‘she’s had to do all the work. Beastly, grinding work in an office, when she was capable of this.’ “The girl bent over him, and I looked away. It seemed to me that the ground on which I stood was holy.”