Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress
not to swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she
must suffer his fictitious love for the evening.

At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been
provided over and above her care. She had practised her make-up
in the morning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the
evening by one o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at
her part, waiting for the evening to come.

On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her
as far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores,
looking for some good cigars. The little actress marched
nervously into her dressing-room and began that painfully
anticipated matter of make-up which was to transform her, a
simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of Society.

The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel
and display, the scattered contents of the make-up box--rouge,
pearl powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the
eye-lids, wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery--in short, all
the nameless paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable
atmosphere of their own. Since her arrival in the city many
things had influenced her, but always in a far-removed manner.
This new atmosphere was more friendly. It was wholly unlike the
great brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away, permitting
her only awe and distant wonder. This took her by the hand
kindly, as one who says, "My dear, come in." It opened for her as
if for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of the names
upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the