violins were as imperceivable as powder on a marble Venus. An
instinctive defiance rose within her.

"Silly boy!" she said to herself hurriedly, and she didn't take
her encore.

"What do they expect for a hundred a week--perpetual motion?"
she grumbled to herself in the wings.

"What's the trouble? Marcia?"

"Guy I don't like down in front."

During the last act as she waited for her specialty she had an
odd attack of stage fright. She had never sent Horace the
promised post-card. Last night she had pretended not to see him--
had hurried from the theatre immediately after her dance to
pass a sleepless night in her apartment, thinking--as she had
so often in the last month--of his pale, rather intent face, his
slim, boyish fore, the merciless, unworldly abstraction that
made him charming to her.

And now that he had come she felt vaguely sorry--as though an
unwonted responsibility was being forced on her.

"Infant prodigy!" she said aloud.

"What?" demanded the negro comedian standing beside her.

"Nothing--just talking about myself."