On the artistic occasions alluded to, I hooked Semantha up the back, and then Semantha hooked up my back.  Ah, what a comfort was that girl; as a hooker-up of waists she was perfection.  No taking hold of the two sides of the waist, planting the feet firmly, and taking a huge breath, as if the Vendome column was about to be overthrown.  No hooking of two-thirds of the hooks and eyes, and then suddenly unhooking them, remarking that there was a little mistake at the top hook.  No putting of thumbs to the mouth to relieve the awful numbness caused by terrible effort and pinching.  Ah, no!  Semantha smiled,—­she generally did that,—­turned you swiftly to the light, caught your inside belt on the fly, as it were, fastened that, fluttered to the top, exactly matched the top hook to the top eye, and, high presto! a little pull at the bottom, a swift smooth down beneath the arms, and you were finished, and you knew your back was a joy until the act was over.

That was all I had known of Semantha.  Probably it was all I ever should have known had not a sharp attack of sickness kept me away from the theatre for a time, during which absence Semantha made the discovery which was to bring her nearer to me.

Finding my dressing place but a barren waste of pine board, Semantha with smiling readiness turned to the dressing place on her left for a pin or two, and was stricken with amazement when the milder of her two companions remarked in a grudgingly unwilling tone, “You may take a few of my pins and hair-pins if you are sure to pay them back again.”

While she was simply stunned for a moment, when the other companion, with that rare, straightforward brutality for which she became so deservedly infamous later on, snorted angrily:  “No, you don’t!  Don’t you touch anything of mine!  You can’t sponge on me as you do on Clara!”

Now Semantha was a German, as we were apt to find out if ever she grew excited over anything; and whenever she had a strange word used to her, she would repeat that word several times, first to make sure she fully understood its meaning, next to impress it upon her memory; so there she stood staring at her dressing mate, and slowly, questioningly repeated, “Spoonge? spoonge? w’at is that spoonge?” And received for answer, “What is it? why, it’s stealing.”  Semantha gave a cry.  “Yes,” continued the straightforward one, “it’s stealing without secrecy; that’s what sponging is.”

Poor Semantha—­astonished, insulted, frightened—­turned her quivering face to the other girl and passionately cried, “Und she, my Fraeulein Clara, tink she dat I steal of her?”

Then for the first time, and I honestly believe the last time in her life, that other pretty blond, but woolly-brained, young woman rose to the occasion—­God bless her—­and answered stoutly, “No, Clara never thought you were stealing.”