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A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up, and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots, and laughing. The whole thing was a fiasco. The last act was played to almost empty benches.

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. The girl was standing alone there, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.

When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. ‘How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!’ she cried.

‘Horribly!’ he answered, gazing at her in amazement,—‘horribly! It was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea what I suffered.’

The girl smiled. ‘Dorian,’ she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her lips,—‘Dorian, you should have understood. But you understand now, don’t you?’

‘Understand what?’ he asked, angrily.

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