Gascoigne and the mechanist instantly flew into the most violent of rages. Their faces were sheet-white and their knees shook. At the tops of their voices they apostrophised the hidden Bert, inviting him to come down and be half killed. Their oaths died away into a shocked silence. Mason had run round from the office, the company had hurried out of the dressing-rooms and were clustered in the entrances. The unfortunate Bert came down from the grid and stood gaping in horror at his handiwork.

“Gawdstreuth, Mr. Gascoigne, I don’t know how it happened. Gawdstreuth, Mr. Gascoigne, I’m sorry. Gawdstreuth.”

“Shut your—face,” suggested the head mechanist, unprintably. “Do you want to go to gaol for manslaughter?”

“Don’t you know the first—rule about working in the flies. Don’t you know—”

Mason went back to the office. One by one the company returned to their dressing-rooms.

“And what,” said the oldest of the three reporters, “is your opinion of our railroads, Mr. Meyer? How do they compare with those in the Old Country?”

Mr. Meyer shifted uncomfortably on his cushion and his hand stole round to his rear.

“I think they’re marvellous,” he said.

Hailey Hambledon knocked on Carolyn’s door. “Are you ready, Carol? It’s a quarter past.”

“Come in, darling.”

He went into the bedroom she shared with Meyer. It looked exactly like all their other bedrooms on tour. There was the wardrobe trunk, the brilliant drape on the bed, Carolyn’s photos of Meyer, of herself, and of her father, the parson in Bucks. And there, on the dressing-table, was her complexion in its scarlet case. She was putting the final touches to her lovely face and nodded to him in the looking-glass.

“Good morning, Mrs. Meyer,” said Hambledon and kissed her fingers with the same light gesture he had so often used on the stage.

“Good morning, Mr. Hambledon.” They spoke with that unnatural and half-ironical gaiety that actors so often assume when greeting each other outside the theatre.

Carolyn turned back to her mirror.

“I’m getting very set-looking, Hailey. Older and older.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you? I expect you do, really. You think to yourself sometimes: it won’t be long before she is too old for such-and-such a part.’

“No. I love you. To me you do not change.”

“Darling! So sweet! Still, we do grow older.”

“Then why, why, why not make the most of what’s left. Carol—do you really believe you love me?”

“You’re going to have another attack. Don’t.”

She got up and put on her hat, giving him a comically apprehensive look from under the brim. “Come along now,” she said.