lady, who lounged about on terrace steps in picturesque attitudes.
He was glad that he was not an unimportant member of the crowd of
courtiers who came on in a bunch and bowed and nodded and pretended
to talk to one another and went off again. He realized that he would
be in sight of the audience all the time. It did not strike him that
the manager was using him merely as a piece of decoration.

One day, however, at rehearsal the leading lady said: "If my
lute-player could play a few chords here--or the orchestra for
him-it would help me tremendously. I've got all this long cross with
nothing to say."

Paul seized his opportunity. "I can play the mandoline," said he.

"Oh, can you?" said the manager, and Paul was handed over to the
musical director, and the next day rehearsed with a real instrument
which he twanged in the manner prescribed. He did not fail to
announce himself to Jane as a musician.

Gradually he found his feet among the heterogeneous band who walk on
at London theatres. Some were frankly vulgar, some were
pretentiously genteel, a good many were young men of gentle birth
from the public schools and universities. Paul's infallible instinct
drew him into timid companionship with the last. He knew little of
the things they talked about, golf and cricket prospects, and the
then brain-baffling Ibsen, but he listened modestly, hoping to
learn. He reaped the advantage of having played "the sedulous ape"
to his patrons of the studios. His tricks were somewhat exaggerated;
his sweep of the hat when ladies passed him at the stage door
entrance was lower than custom deems necessary; he was quicker in