One afternoon, a month later, Finch was standing among a group of amateur actors in the narrow passage between the stage and the row of dressing-rooms in the Little Theatre. They were dispersing after a rehearsal of St. John Ervine's John Ferguson, and Mr. Brett, the English director, had just come up. Hands in pockets, he lounged over to Finch, and, with an eager smile lighting his clever, humorous, actorish face, observed: "I want to tell you, Whiteoak, how awfully pleased I am with your performance to-day. If you keep on as you're going now, you are going to make a really splendid Cloutie John."
"Thanks—Mr. Brett," stammered Finch. "I'm glad you think I'm all right." He was crimson from embarrassment and deep joy. Praise! Warm praise, before all of them!
Arthur Leigh broke in: "Yes, that's just what I've been telling Finch, Mr. Brett. He's simply splendid. I'm certain of this, that I'm doing my own part better since he's been playing Cloutie John. He brings a feeling of absolute reality into it."
Finch stared straight ahead of him, his fixed expression a burning mask for the confused elation of his spirit.
"Well, I'm very, very pleased," reiterated Mr. Brett, pushing toward the door—he was yearning for his tea. "To-morrow at the same hour, then, and everybody on time."
The door at the end of the passage was opened and a gust of crisp December air rushed in. The players drifted in a small body on to the stone steps. The walls of the university rose about them, showing here and there a lighted window. The arch of the Memorial
