slightly to relax.

"Lane is the merest buffoon," he replied quietly. "You are an artist.
There is no comparison possible, Miss Norvell. The play itself is
utterly unworthy of your talent, yet you succeed in dignifying it in a
way I can never cease to admire."

She stood staring straight at him, her lips parted, apparently so
thoroughly startled by these unexpected words as to be left speechless.

"Why," she managed to articulate at last, her cheeks flushing, "I
supposed you like the others we have had with us--just--just a common
stage hand. You speak with refinement, with meaning."

"Have you not lived sufficiently long in the West to discover that men
of education are occasionally to be found in rough clothing?"

"Oh, yes," doubtfully, her eyes still on his face, "miners, stockmen,
engineers, but scarcely in your present employment."

"Miss Norvell," and Winston straightened up, "possibly I may be
employed here for a reason similar to that which has induced you to
travel with a troupe of barn-stormers."

She shrugged her shoulders, her lips smiling, the seductive dimple
showing in her cheeks.

"And what was that?"

"The ambition of an amateur to attain a foothold upon the professional