laughter swelling into a hurricane of applause which never failed
to come from the towering tiers of humanity before him,
stretching away into the roof where the limelights blazed and
spluttered. Save for the low murmur of voices at her side, the
silence behind the scenes was absolute. No one was idle. Everyone
was at his post, his attention concentrated on that diminutive
little figure in the ridiculous clothes which the spot-lights
tracked about the stage.

It was the high-water mark of modern music-hall development. The
perfect smoothness of the organization gave Barbara a great
feeling of contentment for she knew how happy her father must be.
Everyone had been so kind to him. "I shall feel a stranger
amongst the top-liners of today, my dear," he had said to her in
the car on their way to the hall. She had had no answer ready for
she had feared he spoke the truth.

Yet everyone they had met had tried to show them that Arthur
Mackwayte was not forgotten. The stage-door keeper had known him
in the days of the old Aquarium and welcomed him by name. The
comedian who preceded Mr. Mackwayte and who was on the stage at
that moment had said, "Hullo, Mac! Come to give us young 'uns
some tips?" And even now the stage manager was talking over old
days with her father.

"You had a rough but good schooling, Mac," he was saying, "but,
by Jove, it gave us finished artists. If you saw the penny
reading line that comes trying to get a job here... and gets it,
by Gad!... it'd make you sick. I tell you I have my work cut out
staving them off! It's a pretty good show this week, though, and