“Oh, go ’way and take a nap!” interrupted Willie, without heat. He was no respecter of persons. “So _that’s_ it! All right, gov’nor. I’m glad to see any sort of a _Lucille_ show up, anyhow. Even if she’s bad, she’ll be better than nothing. No offense, Miss Merivale.” “I quite understand,” said Sybil, so sweetly that Willie turned all the way round to look her over once more with his pale, anxious eyes. “Come on, folks; they’re all waiting,” he said, and led the way onto the big, bare stage. Willie Coster was a small, nervous man with a cynical pose and the heart of a child. His scant hair was sandy, and his features unbeautiful, but he was a good, clever, and hard-working little chap, and even the companies he trained were fond of him. He constantly and loudly proclaimed his disgust with all humanity, especially the humanity of the theaters; but he was usually broke because he hated to refuse a “touch,” and every one on earth called him Willie. He was a remarkable stage manager. He was a true artist, was Willie Coster, and he poured his soul into his work. After every first night he got profoundly drunk and stayed so for a week. Otherwise, he explained quite seriously—and as every one, including Dukane, could quite believe—he would have collapsed from nervous strain. Only a few electric lights had been turned on. The stage looked dim and dingy, and the auditorium was a vast abyss of unfathomable blackness. Close to the edge of the stage, where the unlighted electric footlights made a dully beaded curve, stood a small table littered with the four acts of the play and some loose sheets of manuscript, presided over by a slim little youth who was Coster’s assistant. This was the prompt table, whence rehearsals were, technically speaking, conducted. As a matter of fact, Willie Coster never stayed there more than two minutes at a time. The company had already assembled. They looked hot, resentful, and apprehensive. They stood around in small groups, fanning themselves with newspapers and handkerchiefs, and making pessimistic conjectures as to what was going to happen next. Every one knew that something had gone wrong between Templeton and the management, and collectively they could not make up their minds whether they were glad or sorry. She had been the leading woman of the show, and every one felt a trifle nervous until reassured that another lead would be forthcoming. It was Claire McAllister, one of the “extra ladies,” who first recognized Sybil. “Gee, ain’t that the Merivale girl?” she exclaimed to the young man who played a junior officer in one very small scene. “I saw her in a real part once, and she got away with it in good shape, too.” The young man to whom she spoke looked up, startled, and then sprang forward eagerly, his eyes glowing. “Sybil!” he cried gladly. She turned quickly, and, laughing and flushing in her beautiful frank way, held out both her hands to him.