Miss Buckley, just beginning to feel her feet upon the music-hall stage about this period, had taken a cosy little flat in the neighbourhood of Southampton Row; it was handy for the halls, her connection being in London, only entailing a moderate cab fare to and from her home. She insisted that, as there was plenty of room for two, Miss Larchester should take up her abode with her, saying that it was a bit lonesome in the day time, and she would be glad of a companion. Although pretty keen in business matters, in private life she was very generous, and she would not allow Lettice to contribute a farthing towards the rent, and herself bore the greater share of the housekeeping, being very fond of good living and not averse from occasional stimulant of an expensive kind such as champagne and old brandy. Mrs. Morrice dwelt fully, but not unkindly, on this weakness of her generous friend, for to this unfortunate propensity was due the beginning of her own tragedy. For some time before the death of the dissolute artist, his daughter had taken up painting under his tuition and attained some little proficiency in it, enough to enable her to supplement her tiny income with here and there a commission from one of Larchester’s old patrons, and occasional work in the lower branches of art. Needless to say that, although this was better than nothing and relieved her from the intolerable ennui of idleness, it did not satisfy a girl who was fond of pleasure and all the amenities that money could bring, and at heart of an ambitious nature. Like many other girls of poor position and no particular talent, she looked forward to a judicious marriage to give her what she wanted, to justify her aspirations. The future was precarious. Alma Buckley was a good enough friend now, but any day she herself might marry, and then Lettice might no longer find herself a welcome inmate in a changed establishment. But opportunity was a long time coming. Alma was a jolly, genial soul, with a great genius for friendship, and she soon gathered round her a goodly circle of acquaintances, nearly all members of her own profession. Truth to tell, there was not much refinement amongst the men and women who frequented the little flat, and Miss Larchester, due, no doubt, to the good blood on her father’s side, was rather fastidious. She wanted a man who was not only well-off, but also a gentleman in manners and appearance. Her friend used to rally her upon what she considered her high-flown notions. “No use waiting for the impossible, my dear,” she said to her, with her loud, jolly laugh. “The Prince Charming you are sighing for won’t make his way to our flat. Get hold of the first chap who takes you seriously, after satisfying yourself he’s making plenty of money. Never mind if he doesn’t come up quite to your standard in certain things. You can try the polishing process on him after you’re married, and as likely as not you’ll make a good job of it.”