There were three women in the dressing-room. Little Miss Macy, who played a subaltern, was pulling off her uniform; and the "Duchess," divested of velvet, stood brushing the powder out of her hair. The third woman was doing nothing. In a chair by the theatrical hamper labelled "Miss Olive Westland's Tour: 'The Foibles of Fashion' Co.," she sat regarding the others, her hands idle in her lap. She was scarcely what is called "beautiful," much less was she what ought to be called "pretty"; perhaps "womanly" came nearer to suggesting her than either. Her eyes were not large, but they were so pensive; her mouth was not small, but it curved so tenderly; the face was not regular, but it looked so deliciously soft. Somebody had once said that it "made him admire God"; in watching her, it seemed such a perfect thing that there should be a low white brow, and hair to shade it; it seemed such an exquisite and consummate thing that there should be lips where the Maker put lips, and a chin where the chin is modelled. Her age might have been twenty-seven, also it might have been thirty. The wise man does not question the nice woman's age--he just thanks Heaven she lives; and she in the chair by the hamper was decidedly nice. Other women said so. "Have you been in front, Mrs. Carew?" asked the "Duchess." She answered that she had. "I came round at the end. It was a very good house; the business is improving." "I should think," remarked the "subaltern," reaching for her skirt, "you must know every line of the piece, the times you've seen it! But, of course, you've nothing else to do." "No, it isn't lively sitting alone all the evening in lodgings; and it's more comfortable in the circle than behind. How you people manage to get dressed in some of the theatres puzzles me; I look at you from the front, remembering where your things were put on, and marvel. If I were in the profession, my salary wouldn't keep me in the frocks I ruined." "I wonder Carew has never wanted you to go into it." The nice woman laughed. "Go into the profession!" she exclaimed--"I? Good gracious, what an idea! No; Tony has a very flattering opinion of his wife's abilities, but I don't think even he goes the length of fancying I could act." "You'd be as good as a certain leading lady we know of, at any rate. Nobody could be much worse than our respected manageress, I'll take my oath!" "Jeannie," said the "Duchess" sharply, "don't quarrel with your bread-and-butter!" "I'm not," said the girl; "I'm criticising it--a very different matter, my dear. I hate these amateurs with money, even if they do take out companies and give shops to us pros. She queers the best line I've got in the piece every night because she won't speak up and nobody knows what it's an answer to. The real type of the 'confidential actress' is Miss Westland; no danger of _her_ allowing anyone in the audience to overhear what she says!"