“Yes. She fainted. She was bringing these things. They've carried her into Miss Dunson's room.” She opened the parcels. He watched her. He had forgotten that she was so pretty, that she had so much personality even off-stage. The turbulence in his heart seemed all at once to be dying down. A little glow was setting up there now. The little glow was growing. There was, after all, a great deal between him and Grace. He had treated her shabbily, o: course. He hadn't known how to avoid that, She was a dear to be so sweet about it.... The way she had rushed to him, the feel of her firm smooth hand on his cheek, the fact that she had, right now, in the very moment of her triumph, forgotten herself utterly--that was rather wonderful. A fine girl, Grace! She came to him again; opened his singlet and examined the wounds. “I don't think they're very deep,” said she. “What a strange experience.” “They're nothing,” said he. “Perhaps I'd better not do anything until the doctor comes.” “Of course not,” said he. She was bending close over him. A loose strand of her fine hair brushed his cheek. A new fever was at work within him. He kissed her hair. She heard the sound but said nothing; she was washing away the blood with the antiseptic solution Minna had got. He caught one glimpse of her eyes; they were wet with tears. Suddenly he knew that the sonnet, on the envelope, blood-soaked, was burning in his hand. He raised it. “Careful, dear!” she murmured. “Don't move.” “We've quarreled, Grace--” “Yes, I know.” “I haven't been--decent, even--” She was silent. “But when I saw you to-night--” He unfolded the envelope. “I wrote this to-night. Up in the gallery...” Slowly, in a low voice that trembled with passion, he read it to her. And he saw the tears crowd out and slowly fall. He had his effect. “Grace, dear--” “Yes, Peter.” “I'm tired of being alone--tired.” “I know...” “Why shouldn't we try the real thing--go all the way--” “You mean--marriage. Peter?” “I mean marriage, Grace.” Very tired, very thoughtful, still in the costume and make-up of the part, kneeling there beside him, she considered this. Finally she lifted her eyes to his. “I'm willing, Peter,” she said. “I won't try to deceive myself. It is what I have wanted.” The doctor came then; bandaged him, and advised quiet for a few days, preferably in a hospital. When he had gone, she cried with a half smile: “You're not going to his old hospital, Peter. You're coming home with me.” He lay there in a beatific dream while she changed to her street clothes. They were ready to go. She had ordered an ambulance, and they were waiting. There was a knock. “Come in,” she called. The door opened. First to appear was a breezy young man who could not possibly have been other than a press-agent--a very happy press-agent. Next came a policeman; a mounted policeman, evidently, from his natty white cap and his puttees. Following were half a dozen newspaper men.