“I just missed a lovely job yesterday,” she said. “Six weeks in the provinces and then the West End. The manager said I would have got it for certain if only I’d been robust enough. He said if my figure had been fuller, the part was made for me.” She stared at Miss Moss, and the dirty dark red rose under the brim of her hat looked, somehow, as though it shared the blow with her, and was crushed, too. “Oh, dear, that was hard lines,” said Miss Moss trying to appear indifferent. “What was it—if I may ask?” But the dark, mournful girl saw through her and a gleam of spite came into her heavy eyes. “Oh, no good to you, my dear,” said she. “He wanted someone young, you know—a dark Spanish type—my style, but more figure, that was all.” The inner door opened and Mr. Bithem appeared in his shirt sleeves. He kept one hand on the door ready to whisk back again, and held up the other. “Look here, ladies——” and then he paused, grinned his famous grin before he said—“_and bhoys._” The waiting-room laughed so loudly at this that he had to hold both hands up. “It’s no good waiting this morning. Come back Monday; I’m expecting several calls on Monday.” Miss Moss made a desperate rush forward. “Mr. Bithem, I wonder if you’ve heard from . . .” “Now let me see,” said Mr. Bithem slowly, staring; he had only seen Miss Moss four times a week for the past—how many weeks? “Now, who are you?” “Miss Ada Moss.” “Oh, yes, yes; of course, my dear. Not yet, my dear. Now I had a call for twenty-eight ladies to-day, but they had to be young and able to hop it a bit—see? And I had another call for sixteen—but they had to know something about sand-dancing. Look here, my dear, I’m up to the eyebrows this morning. Come back on Monday week; it’s no good coming before that.” He gave her a whole grin to herself and patted her fat back. “Hearts of oak, dear lady,” said Mr. Bithem, “hearts of oak!” At the North-East Film Company the crowd was all the way up the stairs. Miss Moss found herself next to a fair little baby thing about thirty in a white lace hat with cherries round it. “What a crowd!” said she. “Anything special on?” “_Didn’t_ you know, dear?” said the baby, opening her immense pale eyes. “There was a call at nine-thirty for _attractive_ girls. We’ve all been waiting for _hours._ Have you played for this company before?” Miss Moss put her head on one side. “No, I don’t think I have.” “They’re a lovely company to play for,” said the baby. “A friend of mine has a friend who gets thirty pounds a day. . . . Have you _arcted_ much for the _fil_-lums?” “Well, I’m not an actress by profession,” confessed Miss Moss. “I’m a contralto singer. But things have been so bad lately that I’ve been doing a little.” “It’s _like_ that, isn’t it, dear?” said the baby. “I had a splendid education at the College of Music,” said Miss Moss, “and I got my silver medal for singing. I’ve often sung at West End concerts. But I thought, for a change, I’d try my luck . . .”