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The orchestra struck up.

“Anyhow, she suffered.”

The violins caught up the words and dinned them over and over again into Marion’s ears. Women like Maggie, women with deep hearts like herself–for was not Maggie herself?–they always suffered, always suffered, always!–said the violins.

The manager suddenly appeared in front of the curtain and walked swiftly over the little bridge from the stage to the stalls. He was a small, sturdy, thin-lipped, choleric man, who looked as if he were made up of energy; energy distilled and bottled. Some one had said of him that his hat was really a glass stopper, which might fly off at any moment.

It was off now. There had evidently been an explosion. He held a note in his hand.

“Montgomery has given up the part,” he said. “He was odd at rehearsal yesterday. I felt there was something wrong. He said he had no show. Now he says he’s too ill to come–bronchitis.”

The sense of disaster which had been hanging over Marion all day slipped and engulfed her like an avalanche. She felt paralysed.

“Then the play can’t go on?” she said.

“If it had to happen, better to-night than to-morrow night,” said the manager. “Montgomery is as slippery as an eel. I don’t suppose he has got bronchitis; but I have no doubt if I rushed over there at this moment, I should find him in bed with a steam-kettle. He would play the part.”

“What will you do?” gasped Marion.

“Do?” he said. “Do? There’s only one thing to do. Go through with the play! It will start in two minutes, and we shall see what the understudy can make of it. He’s as clever as he can stick, and he’s word perfect, at any rate.”

“Who is he?”

“A Mr. Delacour; at least, that’s his stage name. He’s been in America for the last five years. Clever enough, but a rolling stone. He’s not to be depended on, poor devil; but it’s Hobson’s choice–we’ve got to depend on him.”

The manager sat down beside her and clapped his hands.

The lights suddenly burned up behind the curtain, the curtain rose and the play began.

Some plays, some books, some men and women, possess a mysterious force which, for lack of a better word, we call vitality. Those who possess it not call it by all manner of ugly names. But, nevertheless, it is the great gift, the power that overcomes, which makes life on a large scale possible, which makes the soldier, the lover, the saint, possible. Most of us are only half alive. Our work is half dead. We deal in creep-mouse sentiment, and call it love. We write pathetically of our impotence to live, and call it resignation. We who have never been young, compare notes with each other on how to remain senile, and call it the art of growing old.

But others go through life, and spend themselves on it, piece by piece, with ardour as they go. These are the teachers–only they never teach. They know. If we want to learn anything, we can watch them. And some of us, again–and this is the hardest fate of all–come into life inadequately equipped, not provisioned for a prolonged journey. What little we have, and what little there is of us, we expend on the first part of life, and having nothing left for middle age.

Such a woman was Marion. She had talent, and she had, besides–as the manager beside her had divined–one live play in her. But he doubted whether she had more than one. She looked insolvent, a dweller in the past, crippled by an acute memory. No doubt it was this self-regarding memory which had resulted in the play. It was obviously a personal experience, and as she was rich enough to share the risk of producing it, he was more than ready to put it on. It was full of faults; it was melodramatic, it was amateurish, but it was passionately alive. The pit and the gallery would love it; and if the stalls found it a little cheap, what of that? He had considerable flair. He believed it would succeed.