They entered the theatre together at four o’clock that afternoon, Angelo, Dan Baker and Petite Jeanne. It was a damp, chilly, autumn day. Jeanne had caught the mood of the day before they entered. There was nothing about the empty playhouse to dispel this disturbing gloom. The half light that was everywhere, a small—bright torch of a lamp here and there boring sharply into the darkness—revealed the threadbare, neglected interior of the place. The floor of the stage creaked as they ventured to walk across it. Row on row of plush seats lay dimly before them. The few that were lighted were soiled and faded. The once gay gilt of box seats had cracked off in places, showing the white beneath. The great velvet curtain drooped woefully.
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“How dismal!” Jeanne spoke before she thought.

“My dear,” said Dan Baker, stepping before Angelo to conceal his look of pain, “it is not the house, but the people that make a theatre. The glowing, pulsating throng of living beings. This is a theatre. Picture this broad stage filled with dreams of beauty and grace. Catch a glimpse of the gay costumes. Listen to the songs and laughter.

“And yonder,” he spread his arms wide as if to take in a great multitude, “yonder are the people, hundreds, thousands! Are they less colorful, less gay? Not one whit. For this is their happy hour. Fans, flowers, smiles, color, laughter, beauty. ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’ No, no, my child! On our great night you will not see the faults of this poor, gray old house that has known the joys and sorrows of three generations of human souls, and which is now standing among tall skyscrapers waiting its destruction; you will see only the gracious people who have come to catch the glow of light and joy that is our opera.”
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As Petite Jeanne looked at him her heart glowed with fresh fire. To her at this moment the aged trouper, with his flowing locks and drooping hat, was the noblest work of God.

“Thanks, old timer,” said Angelo. His tone was husky as he gripped Dan Baker’s hand.

Jeanne said never a word, but as she touched his hand ever so lightly, he understood even better than if she had delivered an oration.

Her dislike of the ancient theatre, with its narrow, ratty dressing rooms, its steep, worn stairways and its smell of decay, was dispelled. But with the manager, the director, the actors she had not met before, as well as the chorus, it was quite another matter. To her distress she found that they, one and all, treated her quite as an outsider. Dan Baker, too, was quite outside their circle. He understood it, and did not care. Having been a trouper, he realized that in companies such as these there were those who “belonged” and those who did not.
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But poor, friendly, hopeful, big-hearted Jeanne, though she was to have a leading part in the play, had intended from the first to be a friend to them, one and all. And behold, none of them would accept her offering.

Members of the chorus might be engaged in an animated conversation, but let her join them and their gayety ceased while they moved silently away.

Not many attempts were made before the sensitive soul of the little French girl curled up like an oyster in a shell. But it was an aching little heart, at that.

“Why? Why?” she demanded of her conscience, and of her confessor, Dan Baker.

“My child,” the aged dancer smiled faintly, “they live in what might be called a golden circle. The circle is complete. None may enter. It is the way of the stage.
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“You cannot understand,” he said gently, “for you have not long been a trouper. You could not know that they were all practically born on the stage; that their fathers and mothers, yes and their grandparents before them, were stage people. They have traveled together, some of them, for years. As they moved from city to city, the people of each city were only an audience to be amused. They have made the audience laugh; they have made it cry. But always they have thought of that audience as a great lump of humanity. Not one individual in that lump cared for one of them in a personal way. Only among their own group have they found companions. Little by little a strong bond has been formed. Hemming them in, it keeps others out. That is their golden circle.”

“It is a most wretched circle!” cried Jeanne with a touch of anger. “It is not a gold............