A shrill

　　A shrill, passionate cry from the front row, and Mr. Bunbury was on hisfeet again. Sally could not help wondering whether things were goingparticularly wrong to-day, or whether this was one of Mr,nike shox torch ii. Bunbury'sordinary mornings.
　　"Miss Hobson!"The action of the drama had just brought that emotional lady on leftcentre and had taken her across to the desk which stood on the otherside of the stage. The desk was an important feature of the play, forit symbolized the absorption in business which, exhibited by herhusband, was rapidly breaking Miss Hobson's heart. He loved his deskbetter than his young wife, that was what it amounted to, and no wifecan stand that sort of thing.
　　"Oh, gee!" said Miss Hobson,shox torch 2, ceasing to be the distressed wife andbecoming the offended star. "What's it this time?""I suggested at the last rehearsal and at the rehearsal before and therehearsal before that, that, on that line, you, should pick up thepaper-knife and toy negligently with it. You did it yesterday, andto-day you've forgotten it again.""My God,UGG Clerance!" cried Miss Hobson, wounded to the quick. "If this don't beateverything! How the heck can I toy negligently with a paper-knife whenthere's no paper-knife for me to toy negligently with?""The paper-knife is on the desk.""It's not on the desk.""No paper-knife?""No paper-knife. And it's no good picking on me. I'm the star, not theassistant stage manager. If you're going to pick on anybody, pick onhim."The advice appeared to strike Mr. Bunbury as good. He threw back hishead and bayed like a bloodhound.
　　There was a momentary pause, and then from the wings on the prompt sidethere shambled out a stout and shrinking figure, in whose hand was ascript of the play and on whose face, lit up by the footlights, thereshone a look of apprehension. It was Fillmore, the Man of Destiny.
　　Alas, poor Fillmore! He stood in the middle of the stage with thelightning of Mr. Bunbury's wrath playing about his defenceless head, andSally, recovering from her first astonishment, sent a wave of sisterlycommiseration floating across the theatre to him,replica mont blanc pens. She did not often pityFillmore. His was a nature which in the sunshine of prosperity had atendency to grow a trifle lush; and such of the minor ills of life ashad afflicted him during the past three years, had, she considered, beenwholesome and educative and a matter not for concern but forcongratulation. Unmoved, she had watched him through that lean periodlunching on coffee and buckwheat cakes, and curbing from motives ofeconomy a somewhat florid taste in dress. But this was different. Thiswas tragedy. Somehow or other, blasting disaster must have smitten theFillmore bank-roll, and he was back where he had started. His presencehere this morning could mean nothing else.
　　She recalled his words at the breakfast-table about financing the play.
　　How like Fillmore to try to save his face for the moment with anoutrageous bluff, though well aware that he would have to reveal thetruth sooner or later. She realized how he must have felt when he hadseen her at the hotel. Yes, she was sorry for Fillmore.