“It’s all a lie,” she said passionately. “I’m only on at one hall--last turn on the programme. His song don’t fetch even a grin. I’m expecting the manager to bully me on pay day. People don’t understand ’em--I don’t myself. It’s a lie. I was hissed--hissed! And there’s him, poor dear, talking of writing for Guy Blockley and Ada Fitz Clare. Oh! it’s all right about the ten pounds, I can run to that. Don’t you fret.” She colored, through her make-up--her daylight make-up, all careless smears of blue-white powder and burning smudges of red. Nearly every night, after the halls and the public houses were shut, one or two fellows would drop into Jimmy’s room and give him the evening’s news. They sang snatches of new songs to him, mimicked bits of “business.” They retailed the popular comedian’s latest gag, the story that was going the round of the clubs, the smart conundrum on public affairs or people. Jimmy used to join in weakly, drumming his claw-like fingers on the quilt. He talked of music-hall people of to-day; of five years ago; of men who had been lions and were content to take obscure turns in the provinces now, or who had gone in for the dramatic-agent business. They all ran off his glib tongue; the Sisters That, the Brothers So and So, the Something Troupe. He laughed at old wheezes, which had never lost their flavor for him. He spoke of this man’s pet mannerisms and that girl’s particular smile. He used to say: “Do you remember Joe Slashby’s trick with the pair of spectacles? That was killing,” or, “What’s become of the Manasteriotti girl? Never saw a woman juggle so well.” And he always condemned everyone else’s songs. He said it pained him to see the rot, the arrant, foolish drivel that went down with a music-hall audience. But he was going to alter all that. The public only wanted educating. The public knew a good thing when it heard it. That was proved by the success of his songs. How had his songs gone this evening? Queenie was a good sort, but he was a little nervous of her, afraid she didn’t quite do him justice. He added that she had treated him rather meanly; ten pounds was a poor price with which to buy success. She must be getting twenty pounds a week at the lowest. Three halls at twenty each. That would be sixty. He must speak to her. Success had not improved Jimmy. He was going the way of all successes. He actually spoke of starting a banking account when he got better, of giving a big order to his tailor. He probably would have decided on a house at Brixton and a brougham, if he had lived long enough. But--before he had time to tax Queenie over money matters--the end came. It was Saturday. Harrowsmith looked in about noon. He told me that Jimmy wouldn’t last another twenty-four hours. I went back to the bedroom and broke it. He was lying on his side, turning off another song. He took it very calmly, only hoping that he’d be able to get that third line in the second verse right before he went. It was very weak.