During the last act as she waited for her specialty she had an odd attack of stage fright. She had never sent Horace the promised post-card. Last night she had pretended not to see him-- had hurried from the theatre immediately after her dance to pass a sleepless night in her apartment, thinking--as she had so often in the last month--of his pale, rather intent face, his slim, boyish fore, the merciless, unworldly abstraction that made him charming to her.