I then went out to buy a frame for his picture, which I had repaired by
drawing in the other eye, although licking the Fire and passionate look
of the originle. At the shop I was compeled to show it, to buy a frame
to fit. The clerk was almost overpowered.

"Do you know him?" she asked, in a low and throbing tone.

"Not intimitely," I replied.

"Don't you love the Play?" she said. "I'm crazy about it. I've been back
three times. Parts of it I know off by heart. He's very handsome. That
picture don't do him justise."

I gave her a searching glanse. Was it posible that, without any
acquaintance with him whatever, she had fallen in love with him? It was
indeed. She showed it in every line of her silly face.

I drew myself up hautily. "I should think it would be very expencive,
going so often," I said, in a cool tone.

"Not so very. You see, the play is a failure, and they give us girls
tickets to dress the house. Fill it up, you know. Half the girls in the
store are crazy about Mr. Egleston."

My world shuddered about me. What--fail! That beautiful play, ending "My
darling, my woman"? It could not be. Fate would not be cruel. Was there
no apreciation of the best in Art? Was it indeed true, as Miss Everett
has complained, although not in these exact words, that the Theater was
only supported now by chorus girls' legs, dancing about in uter ABANDON?