once face the gathered throng, behind the glare of the
footlights. She tried to console herself with the thought that a
score of other persons, men and women, were equally tremulous
concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she could not
disassociate the general danger from her own individual
liability. She feared that she would forget her lines, that she
might be unable to master the feeling which she now felt
concerning her own movements in the play. At times she wished
that she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembled
lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and
gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire
performance.

In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared.
That hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the
director's criticism. Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious
and determined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as
Carrie at least. A loafing professional had been called in to
assume the role of Ray, and, while he was a poor stick of his
kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms which attack the
spirit of those who have never faced an audience. He swashed
about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning his
past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner
that he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere
matter of circumstantial evidence.

"It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected
stage voice. "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me.
It's the spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult."