The boards of _Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell_ were big outside the pier. At the turnstile Miss Lascelles nodded towards them, saying, "In the Company." The man answered, "All right, Miss; come in through the gate, then." At the pay-box of the theatre she showed her card, saying, "Can you oblige me with a couple of seats?" The business manager answered, "With pleasure, my dear." The gas-stoves glowed redly, and the theatre was much better warmed than the majority of theatres in London. They sat down in the third row of the stalls, and listened to a dispirited soprano who was supposed to be singing "The Holy City." She was not really singing "The Holy City;" from beginning to end she articulated not a word save "Jerusalem." She simply kept her mouth ajar and wailed the air; but she was successful. There were only about twenty people in the crimson velvet seats, and most of these were _Kiss-and-Tell_ people. The others were very young men, in caps, who bore the sacred music on Sunday evening for the sake of an advance view of the girls who were to perform on Monday. The very young men watched the arrivals with much interest, and if the ladies in the stalls were unattractive, it was said in a Blithepoint club on Sunday night that the piece on the pier to-morrow was no good. When the dispirited soprano had finished, the actresses applauded her warmly, in the hope of cheering her up; and the sixpenny balcony rattled its umbrellas, in the hope of getting a song more than it had paid for. Then one of the actresses murmured to Miss Lascelles, "How badly she holds herself, doesn't she?" and Miss Lascelles presented "Miss Daintree." Rosalind soon discovered that nobody was sanguine of _Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell_ being well received, and--having forgotten something of the world she was revisiting--it surprised her to note the light-heartedness of the professionals, who tottered on the brink of disaster. They were all pitiably poor, they were likely to fall out of employment at the worst time of year; but they said gaily, "Oh well, let's hope for the best! It may be all right at night. It's no use looking on the black side of things." And most of them were totally dependent on their salaries, though that was not the belief of the very young men who endured "The Holy City." Only Miss Jinman, a large, elderly lady who spoke in a bass voice, was pessimistic. Years ago she had sung in parts of dignity, and hectored first-rate touring companies; to-day she was engaged for an amorous old woman in Turkish trousers, whom the low comedian was to pelt with insults as often as she came on the stage.