"Did she? Sometimes when I'm playing Maggie to Montgomery's George I wonder if she did. And I just wonder now and then if I would have thrown him over as she did. I mean for good and all. It seems to me--if she'd cared for him, cared _really_, you know----" "She did," interposed Marion harshly. "Wouldn't she have quarrelled and made it up again? Would she have been quite so hard on him?" "Yes, she would. Think, just think what she must have suffered in the third act, the scene at the Savoy, when, loving him as she did, trusting him as she did, she saw him come in with----" "Well, I expect you know best," said Lenore, whose interest seemed to flag suddenly; "anyhow, she suffered, poor thing. Women like her always do, I think." She rose slowly. "I may as well go and dress. I suppose we shall be here till midnight." The orchestra struck up. "Anyhow, she suffered." The violins caught up the words and dinned them over and over again into Marion's ears. Women like Maggie, women with deep hearts like herself--for was not Maggie herself?--they always suffered, always suffered, always!--said the violins. The manager suddenly appeared in front of the curtain and walked swiftly over the little bridge from the stage to the stalls. He was a small, sturdy, thin-lipped, choleric man, who looked as if he were made up of energy; energy distilled and bottled. Some one had said of him that his hat was really a glass stopper, which might fly off at any moment. It was off now. There had evidently been an explosion. He held a note in his hand. "Montgomery has given up the part," he said. "He was odd at rehearsal yesterday. I felt there was something wrong. He said he had no show. Now he says he's too ill to come--bronchitis." The sense of disaster which had been hanging over Marion all day slipped and engulfed her like an avalanche. She felt paralysed. "Then the play can't go on?" she said. "If it had to happen, better to-night than to-morrow night," said the manager. "Montgomery is as slippery as an eel. I don't suppose he has got bronchitis; but I have no doubt if I rushed over there at this moment, I should find him in bed with a steam-kettle. He would play the part." "What will you do?" gasped Marion. "Do?" he said. "Do? There's only one thing to do. Go through with the play! It will start in two minutes, and we shall see what the understudy can make of it. He's as clever as he can stick, and he's word perfect, at any rate." "Who is he?" "A Mr. Delacour; at least, that's his stage name. He's been in America for the last five years. Clever enough, but a rolling stone. He's not to be depended on, poor devil; but it's Hobson's choice--we've got to depend on him." The manager sat down beside her and clapped his hands. The lights suddenly burned up behind the curtain, the curtain rose and the play began.