There was an after-piece, but Clara was not engaged in it. When, at the fall of the curtain on the melodrama, she went to the shabby dressing-room which she shared with two companions, a message delivered by the call boy bade her repair as soon as possible to the manager’s office. What might this mean? She was startled on the instant, but speedily recovered her self-control; most likely she was to receive a rating—let it come! Without unusual hurry, she washed, changed her dress, and obeyed the summons. Mr. Peel was still a young man, of tall and robust stature, sanguine, with much sham refinement in his manner; he prided himself on the civility with which he behaved to all who had business relations with him, but every now and then the veneer gave an awkward crack, and, as in his debate with Miss Walcott, the man himself was discovered to be of coarse grain. His aspect was singular when, on Clara’s entrance into the private room, he laid down his cigarette and scrutinised her. There was a fiery hue on his visage, and the scowl of his black eyebrows had a peculiar ugliness. ‘Miss Vale,’ he began, after hesitation, ‘do you consider that you played your part this evening with the conscientiousness that may fairly be expected of you?’ ‘Perhaps not,’ replied the girl, averting her eyes, and resting her hand on the table. ‘And may I ask _why_ not?’ ‘I didn’t feel in the humour. The house saw no difference.’ ‘Indeed? The house saw no difference? Do you mean to imply that you always play badly?’ ‘I mean that the part isn’t worth any attention—even if they were able to judge.’ There was a perfection of insolence in her tone that in itself spoke strongly for the abilities she could display if occasion offered. ‘This is rather an offhand way of treating the subject, madam,’ cried Mr. Peel. ‘If you disparage our audiences, I beg you to observe that it is much the same thing as telling me that my own successes are worthless!’ ‘I intended nothing of the kind.’ ‘Perhaps not.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked down at his boots for an instant. ‘So you are discontented with your part?’ ‘It’s only natural that I should be.’ ‘I presume you think yourself equal to Juliet, or perhaps Lady Macbeth?’ ‘I could play either a good deal better than most women do.’ The manager laughed, by no means ill-humouredly. ‘I’m sorry I can’t bring you out in Shakespeare just at present, Miss Vale; but—should you think it a condescension to play Laura Denton?’ This was Miss Walcott’s part, now Grace Danver’s. Clara looked at him with mistrust; her breath did not come quite naturally. ‘How long would it take you, do you think,’ pursued the other, ‘to get the words?’ ‘An hour or two; I all but know them.’ The manager took a few paces this way and that. ‘We go on to Bolton to-morrow morning. Could you undertake to be perfect for the afternoon rehearsal?’ ‘Yes.’