“Yes, it’s _like_ that, isn’t it, dear?” said the baby. At that moment a beautiful typist appeared at the top of the stairs. “Are you all waiting for the North-East call?” “Yes!” cried the chorus. “Well, it’s off. I’ve just had a phone through.” “But look here! What about our expenses?” shouted a voice. The typist looked down at them, and she couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, you weren’t to have been _paid._ The North-East never _pay_ their crowds.” There was only a little round window at the Bitter Orange Company. No waiting-room—nobody at all except a girl, who came to the window when Miss Moss knocked, and said: “Well?” “Can I see the producer, please?” said Miss Moss pleasantly. The girl leaned on the window-bar, half shut her eyes and seemed to go to sleep for a moment. Miss Moss smiled at her. The girl not only frowned; she seemed to smell something vaguely unpleasant; she sniffed. Suddenly she moved away, came back with a paper and thrust it at Miss Moss. “Fill up the form!” said she. And banged the window down. “Can you aviate—high-dive—drive a car—buck-jump—shoot?” read Miss Moss. She walked along the street asking herself those questions. There was a high, cold wind blowing; it tugged at her, slapped her face, jeered; it knew she could not answer them. In the Square Gardens she found a little wire basket to drop the form into. And then she sat down on one of the benches to powder her nose. But the person in the pocket mirror made a hideous face at her, and that was too much for Miss Moss; she had a good cry. It cheered her wonderfully.