I immediately saw what had attracted his eye, for on an easel just inside the entrance was the portrait of our woman.

On a placard below the picture was the name "Edna Bronson." Our surprise was mingled with sad regret at seeing it playing a false part to serve the ends of an unscrupulous manager.
"Perhaps she is here! suddenly exclaimed Rayel.
"That is very unlikely," I answered, "but we shall see." I bought tickets for the evening's performance and we hastened home, strangely elated, to dress for the play.
Our seats were in one of the lower proscenium boxes and quite clearly exposed to the gaze of the thousands who filled the theatre in winding rows, ascending and receding to the roof high above us.

The garish decorations, the gay throng bedizened with jewels sparkling in the light and the hundreds of fair faces and bright eyes that were turned toward us presented a spectacle entirely new to Rayel.

Shortly the curtain rose and the play began.

Its first scene was a counterfeit of real stage life in an English theatre.