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III
III. He was there again. She saw him when she took her first glance at the restless Manhattan audience—down in the front row with his head bent a bit forward and his gray eyes fixed on her. And she knew that to him they were alone together in a world where the high-rouged row of ballet faces and the massed whines of the violins were as imperceivable as powder on a marble Venus. An instinctive defiance rose within her. “Silly boy!” she said to herself hurriedly, and she didn’t take her encore. “What do they expect for a hundred a week—perpetual motion?” she grumbled to herself in the wings. “What’s the trouble, Marcia?” “Guy I don’t like down in front.” During the last act as she waited for her specialty she had an odd attack of stage fright. She had never sent Horace the promised pos
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