“‘Masks and Faces.’ I’ve always wanted to play Peg. and it has good parts for you and Kent, and St. George I chose it for that reason, for I shall need all the help I can get to pull me through, I dare say.” The smile vanished entirely at this speech, and Christie was suddenly seized with a suspicion that Lucy was not only jealous of her as an actress, but as a woman. St. George was a comely young actor who usually played lovers’ parts with Christie, and played them very well, too, being possessed of much talent, and a gentleman. They had never thought of falling in love with each other, though St. George wooed and won Christie night after night in vaudeville and farce. But it was very easy to imagine that so much mock passion had a basis of truth, and Lucy evidently tormented herself with this belief. “Why didn’t you choose Juliet: St. George would do Romeo so well?” said Lucy, with a sneer. “No, that is beyond me. Kent says Shakespeare will never be my line, and I believe him. I should think you’d be satisfied with ‘Masks and Faces,’ for you know Mabel gets her husband safely back in the end,” answered Christie, watching the effect of her words. “As if I wanted the man! No, thank you, other people’s leavings won’t suit me,” cried Lucy, tossing her head, though her face belied her words. “Not even though he has ‘heavenly eyes,’ ‘distracting legs,’ and ‘a melting voice?’” asked Christie maliciously, quoting Lucy’s own rapturous speeches when the new actor came. “Come, come, girls, don’t quarrel. I won’t ’ave it in me room. Lucy’s tired to death, and it’s not nice of you, Kitty, to come and crow over her this way,” said Mamma Black, coming to the rescue, for Lucy was in tears, and Christie looking dangerous. “It’s impossible to please you, so I’ll say good-night,” and Christie went to her room with resentment burning hotly in her heart. As she crossed the chamber her eye fell on her own figure reflected in the long glass, and with a sudden impulse she tinned up the gas, wiped the rouge from her cheeks, pushed back her hair, and studied her own face intently for several moments. It was pale and jaded now, and all its freshness seemed gone; hard lines had come about the mouth, a feverish disquiet filled the eyes, and on the forehead seemed to lie the shadow of a discontent that saddened the whole face. If one could believe the testimony of that countenance things were not going well with Christie, and she owned it with a regretful sigh, as she asked herself, “Am I what I hoped I should be? No, and it is my fault. If three years of this life have made me this, what shall I be in ten? A fine actress perhaps, but how good a woman?”