“I’ll go to Charing Cross. Yes, that’s what I’ll do,” she decided. “But I won’t have a cup of tea. No, I’ll have a coffee. There’s more of a tonic in coffee. . . . Cheeky, those girls are! Her boy came home last night; he brought her a brooch with ‘Dieppe’ written on it.” She began to cross the road. . . . “Look out, Fattie; don’t go to sleep!” yelled a taxi driver. She pretended not to hear. “No, I won’t go to Charing Cross,” she decided. “I’ll go straight to Kig and Kadgit. They’re open at nine. If I get there early Mr. Kadgit may have something by the morning’s post. . . . I’m very glad you turned up so early, Miss Moss. I’ve just heard from a manager who wants a lady to play. . . . I think you’ll just suit him. I’ll give you a card to go and see him. It’s three pounds a week and all found. If I were you I’d hop round as fast as I could. Lucky you turned up so early . . .” But there was nobody at Kig and Kadgit’s except the charwoman wiping over the “lino” in the passage. “Nobody here yet, Miss,” said the char. “Oh, isn’t Mr. Kadgit here?” said Miss Moss, trying to dodge the pail and brush. “Well, I’ll just wait a moment, if I may.” “You can’t wait in the waiting-room, Miss. I ’aven’t done it yet. Mr. Kadgit’s never ’ere before ’leven-thirty Saturdays. Sometimes ’e don’t come at all.” And the char began crawling towards her. “Dear me—how silly of me,” said Miss Moss. “I forgot it was Saturday.” “Mind your feet, _please_, Miss,” said the char. And Miss Moss was outside again. That was one thing about Beit and Bithems; it was lively. You walked into the waiting-room, into a great buzz of conversation, and there was everybody; you knew almost everybody. The early ones sat on chairs and the later ones sat on the early ones’ laps, while the gentlemen leaned negligently against the walls or preened themselves in front of the admiring ladies. “Hello,” said Miss Moss, very gay. “Here we are again!” And young Mr. Clayton, playing the banjo on his walking-stick, sang: “Waiting for the Robert E. Lee.” “Mr. Bithem here yet?” asked Miss Moss, taking out an old dead powder puff and powdering her nose mauve. “Oh, yes, dear,” cried the chorus. “He’s been here for ages. We’ve all been waiting here for more than an hour.” “Dear me!” said Miss Moss. “Anything doing, do you think?” “Oh, a few jobs going for South Africa,” said young Mr. Clayton. “Hundred and fifty a week for two years, you know.” “Oh!” cried the chorus. “You _are_ weird, Mr. Clayton. Isn’t he a _cure?_ Isn’t he a _scream_, dear? Oh, Mr. Clayton, you do make me laugh. Isn’t he a _comic?_” A dark, mournful girl touched Miss Moss on the arm.