theatre where "Splendour" was playing. Sid Hahn always said that after
the big third-act scene he liked to watch the audience swim up the
aisle. Josie, hidden in the back-stage shadows, used to watch,
fascinated, breathless. Then, one night, she indiscreetly was led, by
her, absorbed interest, to venture too far into the wings. It was
during the scene where Haddon, hearing a broken-down street singer
cracking the golden notes of "Aïda" into a thousand mutilated fragments,
throws open her window and, leaning far out, pours a shower of Italian
and broken English and laughter and silver coin upon her amazed
compatriot below.

When the curtain went down she came off raging.

"What was that? Who was that standing in the wings? How dare any one
stand there! Everybody knows I can't have any one in the wings. Staring!
It ruined my scene to-night. Where's McCabe? Tell Mr. Hahn I want to see
him. Who was it? Staring at me like a ghost!"

Josie had crept away, terrified, contrite, and yet resentful. But the
next week saw her back at the theatre, though she took care to stay in
the shadows.

She was waiting for the black velvet dress. It was more than a dress to
her. It was infinitely more than a stage costume. It was the habit of
glory. It epitomised all that Josie Fifer had missed of beauty and
homage and success.

The play ran on, and on, and on. Sarah Haddon was superstitious about
the black gown. She refused to give it up for a new one. She insisted
that if ever she discarded the old black velvet for a new the run of the