age, in England--she
would be obliged to refuse! And, if some gentleman were to pay her his
addresses, treat her like a lady, take her to choose a hat or a silk
petticoat in a smart shop, there was somebody who would have the right to
say to her, as she passed:

"How's my little wife getting on?"

Oh, those two Jim Crows round her, spoiling her future! Jimmy and Trampy!
They would end by being the death of her. Oh, if she had had Thea's arm,
what a blow in the jaw for one or both of them! And Lily, when she thought
of it, wore the face which was hers on her bad days, teeth clenched,
stubborn forehead. Glass-Eye shook in her boots when she saw it, for
sometimes Lily vented her anger upon the poor girl with a smack,
considering herself quits if she begged pardon after!

"If it's one of those footy rotters," growled Lily, hearing a knock at the
door, "smash a bottle over his head!"

But no, it was simply her letters, sent on from the theater. Nothing of
importance this morning; prospectuses, mostly: a wig-maker, special
theatrical department; a manufacturer of traveling-hampers, for South
Africa, Australia....

"No use for them," thought Lily, with a sigh.

[Illustration: A ROOFER GIRL]

And, on opening _The Era_, she received that discouraging sensation:
always so many names, and so many tricks, and all "the best;" new ideas
and troupes, troupes, troupes; another new troupe of fat freaks, a very
flood of them; and Roofers, Roofers; "Greater-Greater England Girls,"
words and music guaranteed, with scarlet legs and muslin skirts, complete;
page upon page of pink tights; and national troupes and colonial troupes;
and one had to earn a livelihood and shine among all that! Lily was half
crushed; and everybody she knew was triumphing: the Pawnees,--one hundred
and thirty music-halls, the whole of the Eastern and Western Trusts, the
great two-years' tour! The Three Graces also were continuing their
triumphs. Lily, who felt herself the equal of any of them, held her breath
as she read the news. Laurence had won her terrible bet that she would
ride straight across Manchester and Salford on her bike, hands tied
together, feet fastened to the pedals. At the Art Institute in Chicago,
Marjutti had given a lecture on the art of contortion.

"Some josser of a journalist wrote it for her," thought Lily.

And _The Performer Annual_ had sent Marjutti its set of questions to
answer, she had been published in print! And Lily was st