then stretched, a slow spread of arms, languid and catlike. Pressing her
hands on her eyes she said from smiling lips:

"Oh, there's no particular reason. It just happens so. I'm getting to
feel sure of myself--that's what, I guess. Now run along, old son, I'm
sleepy. 'The Gray Lady' does it to me as well as the audience.
Good-night."

Crowder was not the only one who had noticed Pancha's improved looks and
high spirits. Behind the scenes the failure of "The Gray Lady" had
produced dejection and rasped tempers. She alone seemed to escape the
prevailing gloom. She came in at night smiling, left a trail of notes
behind her as she walked to her dressing room, and from there clear
scales and mellow bars rose spasmodically as she dressed. Usually holding
herself aloof, she was friendly, made jokes in the wings, chatted with
the chorus, and when she left the old doorkeeper was warmed by her gay
good-night.

Her confreres were puzzled; it was quite a new phase. They had not
liked Miss Lopez at first; she gave herself airs and had a bad temper.
Once she had slapped a chorus woman who had spoiled her exit; at a
rehearsal she had been so rude to the tenor the stage manager had had
to call her down and there had been a fight. Now they wondered and
whispered--under circumstances conducive to ill-humor she was as sweet
as honey dropping from the comb. They set it down to temperament;
everybody from the start had seen she had it, and anyway there wasn't
anything else to set it down to.

What they saw was only a gleam, a thin shining through of the glory
within. It irradiated, permeated, illumined her, escaping in those smiles