Cabinski was silent.

"Or perhaps you would prefer to have me call to-morrow? . . . I can wait a few days, if you wish," she added, seeing that he did not answer, but was observing her intently.

Her voice trembled with entreaty; it modulated with ease and there was so much originality and warmth in her tone that Cabinski listened to her with pleasure.

"Now I have no time, but after the rehearsal we can discuss the matter more thoroughly," he said.

She wanted impulsively to press his hand and thank him for the promise, but her courage failed her, for she noticed that an increasing number of people were curiously observing them.

"Hey there, Cabinski!"

"Man alive!"

"Director! What's that . . . a rendezvous? In broad daylight, before the eyes of all, and scarcely three flights away from Pepa?"

Such were the bantering remarks hurled at him from every direction after his parting with Janina.

"Who is the charmer?"

"Director, it's rather careless to carry on such an affair right there in the limelight."

"Ha! ha! now we've got you! . . . You posed as a flawless crystal, my muddy amber!" called one of the company, a fleshless individual with habitually contorted lips that seemed to spew gall and malice.

"Go to the devil, my dear! This is the first time I saw her,"

retorted Cabinski.

"A pretty woman! What does she want?"

"A novice of some kind . . . she's seeking an engagement."

"Take her, Director. There are never too many pretty women on the stage."

"The director has enough of those calves."

"Don't fear, Wladek, they do not enc.u.mber the budget, for Cabinski has a custom of failing to pay his actors, particularly the young and pretty ladies."

Thereat they all began laughing.

"Treat us to a whiskey, Director, and I will tell you something,"

Glas began anew.

"Well, what is it?"

"That the manager will treat us to another. . . ."

"My funny sir, your belly grows at the expense of your wit . . . you are beginning to prate like a fool," remarked Wladek.

"Only for fools . . ." Glas maliciously thrust back at Wladek and retired behind the scenes.

"John!" came the voice of the director's wife from the veranda.

Cabinski went out to meet her.

She was a tall, stout woman with a face that still retained traces of great beauty, now carefully preserved with paint; she had coa.r.s.e features, large eyes, narrow lips, and a very low forehead. Her dress was of an exaggerated youthful style and color, so that from afar she gave the impression of being a young woman.

She was very proud of her director-husband, of her dramatic talent, and of her children, of which she had four. In real life she was fond of playing the role of a matron occupied only with her home and the upbringing of her children, while in truth she was nothing but a comedienne, both in life and behind the scenes. On the stage she impersonated dramatic mothers and all the elder, unhappy women, never understanding her parts, but acting them, nevertheless, with fervor and pathos.

She was a terror to her servants, to her own children, and to young actresses whom she suspected of possessing talents. She had a shrewish temper which she masked before others with an exaggerated calm and feigned weakness.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" . . . she called, leaning with a careless att.i.tude on her husband's arm.

The company thronged around her, Majkowska greeting her with an effusive kiss.

"How charming Madame Directress looks to-day," remarked Glas.

"Your vision must have improved, for the directress always looks charming!" interposed Wladek.

"How is your health? . . . Yesterday's performance must have taxed your strength."

"You played superbly! . . . We all stood behind the scenes in rapt attention."

"The critics were all weeping. I saw Zarski wiping his eyes with his handkerchief."

"After sneezing . . . he has a bad catarrh," called someone from the side.

"The public was fascinated and swept off its feet in the third act . . . they arose in their chairs."

"That's because they wanted to run away from such a treat," came the mocking voice again.

"How many bouquets did you receive, Madame Directress?"

"Ask the director, he paid the bill."

"Ah, Mr. Counselor, you are unbearable to-day!" cried the directress in a sweet voice, although almost pale with rage, for all the actors were growing red in the face in their effort to keep from laughing.

"It's intended as a kindness. . . . All the rest of them are saying pretty things, let me say something sensible."

"You are an impertinent man, Mr. Counselor! . . . How can you say such things? . . ."

"Moreover, what do I care about the theater! If I played well, I owe it to my husband; if I played badly it's the fault of the director for forcing me to appear continually in new roles! If I had my way, I would lock myself up with my children and confine myself to domestic affairs. . . . My G.o.d! art is such a big thing and we are all, compared with it, so small, so small that I tremble with fear before each new performance!" she declaimed.

"Please let me have a word with you in private," called Majkowska.

"Do you see? . . . there is not even time to talk of art!" she sighed deeply and departed.

"An old scarecrow!"

"An everlasting cow! . . . She thinks she is an artist!"