"You do not mean that, Mr. Thrall!"
"I do mean it! A cheap and gaudy thing, the outside blazing with rare jewels, made of glass! Inside, paper, glue—a pasteboard crown! A thing worthless, meaningless!"
"No!" protested the girl; "your words are very cruel! I do not think you rightly judge the value of the Crown Dramatic, for even if it were but pasteboard it would not be worthless or meaningless! It would still be a sign, a symbol, of artistic triumph, of true excellence, of the world's approval!"
"You are obstinate," he declared.
"And you are not grateful to your profession, I'm afraid," she said, reproachfully; then she hurriedly added: "I beg your pardon! Of course you know of what you speak, and I am very presuming in my ignorance, but"—she clasped her hands tightly above the rose on her breast—"I long to wear that crown some day."
A few red petals fell from the rose and were caught in Thrall's hand. He glanced at Sybil's rapt young face—his resolve was taken. "You shall have your wish," he said. "I will place the crown upon your head; only promise not to reproach me when you find for yourself that it is only pasteboard!"
CHAPTER XIII
THE FORMING OF THE CHRYSALIS
That Stewart Thrall wasted no time when once a plan was settled upon and a thing seriously undertaken may be gathered from a letter written in a Western city by the manager of a stock company playing a summer season in the theatre attached to a soldiers' home. The park coaxed people from the city, and the theatre then drew them from the park to the play.