Mr. Meier came and took her by the hand.  His fat face was pale and sweating, he seemed almost awestruck by Cake’s calm.  He drew her out of the dressing room and through a crowd of people, men and women with painted faces, some beautifully, some extravagantly and strangely dressed.  They all stared.  One woman shook her head.  A man said:  “Search me!  I never saw her before.”

Then Mr. Meier thrust her out in the face of a bright light.  “Begin,” he said hoarsely.  “Walk over there and begin.”

Quietly Cake obeyed.  She had walked right into the bright light that had drawn her so hard and so long.  Of course it was time for her to begin.  And with this bright light in her face, which soon became to her the candle in that dark room left so far behind, she fared away to the magic land of beautiful make-believe.

And only when Juliet, that precocious child, sank down poisoned did she become aware of the uproar about her.  The shouts of the lodger, “Stop—­my God, stop!  How do you get that way?” augmented a million times.  It was this she heard.

Slowly Cake lifted herself on her hands, dazedly she peered through the heart of the great light that had caused her such suffering and that she had followed faithfully so bitterly long.  On the other side she saw faces, rows and rows of them mounting up to the very roof.  Faces laughing; faces convulsed, streaming with tears; faces with eyes fixed and wearing that same queer, strained look she had noticed before; hundreds of faces topping each other in semicircular rows, all different but all alike in that they were all laughing.

She rose to her knees and rested there on all fours—­staring.

Laughter!  A great clapping of hands rolled about her like thunder, dying down and rising again to even greater volume.  Cries of “Go on,” assailed her ears, mingled with, “Stop, stop!  I can’t bear it!”

The curtain fell before her, blotting out the vision of those faces, making the uproar slightly dimmer.  Mr. Meier advanced and lifted her to her feet.  He moved weakly, exhausted with mirth.

“Even Noyes,” he gasped.  “He—­he can’t help it.  Oh, my goo-hood Gaw-hud!”

Cake looked away from him to the men and women that thronged about her.  The same faces that had turned to her such a short while ago; but now, how different!

“Oh, don’t criticise,” one woman cried.  “Hand it to her!  She can’t be beat.  She’s the one that comes once in a century to show the rest of us what really can be done.”

“Meier,” shouted a man.  “Meier—­she’ll have to go back, Meier; she’s stopped the show.”

Quiet and very still, Cake drew away.

It seemed to her only a moment later that Leafy touched her arm.

“Mr. Meier has taken a suite for you here in this hotel,” she said.  “Can’t you eat a little, Miss?”

Eat?  She had never had enough to eat in her life.  Her life?  She had spent her life securing food for the lodger that he might teach her to be famous.  Leafy lifted the spoon of hot soup to her lips and immediately she drank—­she who had never had enough to eat in her life.  Morsel by morsel from the bountifully filled table the kindly dresser fed her.  Obediently she ate, and the hot, rich food stimulated her to swifter, more agonizing thought.