somebody would answer, "Come
along to Poverty Point then," and a batch of the waiting troop would trip
off to the corner.

One of the gorgeous kind was coming down the stairs when his eye fell on
Glory as she stood in a group of girls who were decked out in rose pink
and corresponding finery. He paused, turned back, reopened the office
door, and said in an audible whisper, "Who's the pretty young ginger
you've got here, Josephs?" A moment afterward the agent had come out and
called her upstairs.

"It's salary day, my dear--vait there," he said, and he put her into an
inner room, which was tawdrily furnished in faded red plush, with piano
and coloured prints of ballet girls and boxing men, and was full of the
odour of stale tobacco and bad whisky.

She waited half an hour, feeling hot and ashamed and troubled with
perplexing thoughts, and listening to the jingle of money in the
adjoining room, mingled with the ripple of laughter and sometimes the
exchange of angry words. At length the agent came back, saying, "Vell,
vat can I do for you to-day, my dear?"

He had been drinking, his tone was familiar, and he placed himself on the
end of the sofa upon which Glory was seated.

Glory rose immediately. "I came to ask if you have heard of anything for
me," she said.

"Sit down, my dear."

"No, thank you."

"Heard anything? Not yet, my dear. You must vait----"

"I think I've waited long enough, and if your promises amount to anything
you'll get me an appearance at all events."

"So I vould, my dear. I vould get you an extra turn at the Vashington,
but it's very expensive, and you've got no money."

"Then why did you take what I had if you can do nothing? Besides, I don't
want anything but what my talents can earn. Give me a letter to a
manager--for mercy's sake, do something for me!"

There was a shrug of the Ghetto as the man rose and said, "Very vell, if
it's like that, I'll give you a letter and velcome."

He sat at a table and wrote a short note, sealed it carefully in an
envelope which was backed with advertisements, then gave it to Glory, and
said, "Daddle doo. You'll not require to come again."

Going downstairs she looked at the letter. It was addressed to an acting
manager at a theatre in the farthest west of London. The passages of the
house and the pavements outside were now empty; it was nearly two
o'clock, and snow was beginning to fall. She was feeling cold and a
little hungry, but, making up her