“All right. Six shots, Mortimer. Now you’re coming on, carrying _Lucille_—never mind the business. Miss Merivale, read your line: ‘Thank God, it’s you—in time!’ Right! All the rest of you—_hurry up_! You’re carrying torches, you boobs; don’t you know by this time what you do during the rescue? Oh; for the love of——” He began to tell the company what he thought of it collectively and individually, and Carlton turned to Barrison. “All over but the shouting—and the love scene. Mortimer can do that in great form, but you’ll get no idea of it to-day, of course. He isn’t even trying.” “He’s a good bit soberer than he was, though,” said Barrison, who was watching the star carefully. “Well, I’m inclined to think he is. Maybe he’ll wake up and do his tricks, but you never can tell with him. There go the extras off; it’s the love scene now.” The last scene in the play was a short, sentimental dialogue between _Tarrant_, the hero, and _Lucille_. Sybil read her lines from the part; Mortimer knew his, but recited them without interest or expression, giving her her cues almost mechanically, though his eyes never left her face, and as they played on toward the “curtain,” he began to move nearer to her. “A little more down front, _Lucille_” said Coster from the prompt table. “_Tarrant_ is watching you, and we want his full face. All right; that’s it. Go on, _Tarrant_——” “‘What do you suppose all this counts for with me,’” said Mortimer, speaking slowly and with more feeling than he had used that afternoon. “‘What does it all amount to, if I have not the greatest reward of all—_Lucille_?’” Barrison, listening to the sudden passion vibrating in the genuinely splendid voice, thought he could begin to understand something of the man’s magnetism. If he really tried, he could make a tremendous effect. “‘But the honors that have been heaped upon you!’” read Sybil, her eyes bent earnestly upon the page before her. “‘Your success, your achievements, your——’” She stopped. “Catch her up quicker, Mortimer!” exclaimed Coster. “We don’t want a wait here, for Heaven’s sake! Speak on ‘your success, your’—speak on ‘your.’ Now, once more, Miss Merivale!” “‘Your success,’” read Sybil again, “‘your achievements, your——’” “‘Honors! Success! Achievements!’” Mortimer’s tone was ringing and heartfelt. “‘What do they mean to me, _Lucille_—without you? They are so many empty cups; only you can fill them with the wine of life and love——’” “Noah’s-ark stuff,” murmured Carlton. “Likewise Third Avenue melodrama. But it’ll all go if he does it like that!” “‘Lucille—speak to me——’” “‘You are one who has much to be thankful for, much to be proud of! Your medal of honor—surely that means something to you?’” “‘Ah, yes! I am proud of it—the gift of my country! But it is given to the soldier. The man still waits for his prize! There is only one decoration which I want in all this life, _Lucille_, only one——’”