And this thing Mary Burton did—­did with that calm dignity which is vouchsafed to those whose souls are of heroic quality.

It was only when the day’s work of rehearsal ended and she was locked again in her own room that she sat dry-eyed and wretched, remembering a dozen things which made her shudder.  But as she walked along the streets she kept her eyes to the front, because she could not tell from what wall one of those blazing “three sheets” might confront her.  They were advertising her as Mary Hamilton Burton—­that the value of those two names might doubly pique the curiosity of the morbid.

Also, she avoided as a pestilence the newspapers, and what they might contain.

Abey Lewis did not at all understand her, though he had handled a variety of people during his long career as a purveyor of “refined vaudeville” to the public.  He confessed as much to Mr. Smitherton, with whom, as Miss Burton’s business manager, he came into constant association.

“I don’t get her at all, Mr. Smitherton,” he querulously complained.  “I’ve known most of the big-time artists that have come along in vodeville, and she ain’t like none of them I ever seen.  I’ve made a lot of head-liners, but this girl acts like it gives her a pain to talk to me.  She don’t seem to take no interest in her act.”

The business manager chewed irritably on his cigar.  They were sitting in the darkened theater while Mary Burton was being rehearsed in the short and dramatic sketch which Smitherton had secured for her.

“Has it occurred to you, Lewis,” he suggested, with a certain coolness of manner, “that you wouldn’t be paying Miss Burton the salary you are if she was like anybody else you’ve known?  Haven’t you considered the fact that this lady is going to pack your place to capacity because of her difference?”

“Maybe so.  Maybe she’s a big novelty, and I ain’t kicking,” assented the other.  “But it does seem to me she ought to be more grateful—­for the chance she’s getting.  She’s a knock-out all right!  Them eyes ought to get the folks going—­I wish she’d use ’em more.”

The two sat silent for a while with the empty chairs around them, then Mr. Abey Lewis raised the megaphone with which he was directing and spoke to the stage.

“Daughter,” he instructed, “you ain’t quite got the psychology of the part yet.”  Mary Burton came down toward the front of the stage, with her fore-arm raised across her face to shut off the glare of the “foots,” as she listened.  Mr. Lewis rose and walked thoughtfully down the aisle toward her.  It was Mr. Lewis’ intent to handle very delicately this new headliner whom he failed to comprehend, and of whom he stood in secret awe.