"Ah," said Tinker quietly. "Nerves."

Talbot Potter appealed to the universe with a passionate
gesture. "Nerves!" he cried bitterly. "Yes, that's what they say
when an actor dares to think. 'Go on! Play your part! Be a
marionette forever!' That's what you tell us! 'Slave for your
living, you sordid little puppet! Squirm and sweat and strut,
but don't you ever dare to think!' You tell us that because you
know if we ever did stop to think for one instant about
ourselves you wouldn't have any actors! Actors! Faugh! What do
we get, I ask you?"

He strode close to Tinker and shook a frantic forefinger within
a foot of the quiet old fellow's face.

"What do I get?" he demanded, passionately. "Do you think it
means anything to me that some fat old woman sees me making love
to a sawdust actress at a matinee and then goes home and hates
her fat old husband across the dinner-table?"

He returned to the fireplace, seeming appeased, at least
infinitesimally, by this thought. "There wouldn't even be that,
except for the mystery. It's only because I'm mysterious to
them--the way a man always thinks the girl he doesn't know is
prettier than the one he's with. What's that got to do with
acting? What is acting, anyhow?" His voice rose passionately
again. "I'll tell you one thing it is: It's the most sordid
profession in this devilish world!"