time. But when she was there, though I saw nothing of an audience, save only the bright ring of her hair in the lamplight, that glistened like the nimbus about the heads of saints, I know that I performed my part with a fire and a soul in me which were wholly inspired by her.
"If he were not so uncertain he would be an artist fit even for Paris," I heard the folk say round me; and my old chief said so likewise.
I laughed to myself and felt heartsick; it was horrible to have one's skill, one's brain, one's strength, one's life, all ruled by the presence or absence of one human creature.
And yet so it was. If I could make her mouth part with mirth or fill her eyes with wondering concern at the humour or the pathos of my representation, I became for the time a great artist. If she were not before me, the whole place was empty; I was dull, lifeless, stupid, and I dragged my limbs with effort through the allotted part until the play was over.
But she was often there. In common with the other players, I had a right to admit some one when I would to the theatre free, and every morning she found a pass upon her little deal table, with some simple gift of flowers or fruit or other trifles, such as I could afford to get with the poor pittance
