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And all the while he laughed, a chuckling laugh full of anticipation.

At last his arms closed round the golden body, his lips bent to hers. The sudden gleam of a tiny dagger, its clatter as he caught her upraised arm,—and he flung her from him, clapping his hands for the eunuchs who waited.

With one swift word he condemned her.

She crumpled at his feet. The black men lifted her. She cried out in horror, a curse upon him and his through all the ages.

A long moan as they bore her away, a pause, a splash against the silence, and the curtain descended.

For a breath the house sat motionless. Then came a surge of applause. But the curtain did not rise.

Buzz of conversation met the upgoing lights. Only a few, however, moved from their seats. Those who did came together in the lobby and discussed the new star with a wonder close to awe.

“They sure can turn them out over there,” avowed one seasoned first nighter. “Temperament, that’s the answer, Slav temperament. No little cut and dried two-by-four conventions to tie them down. They’ve got something the American woman don’t know the first thing about.”