One morning, while waiting in the office of an agent to whom Will had introduced me, I was drawn into conversation with an actress whose photographs adorned the walls of the room. There was an air of importance about her, quite distinct from that of the other women who were waiting; these women wore an abject expression. They had relaxed the mechanical expression of "bien être" as the weariness of waiting wore upon them; in spite of the make-up--more or less skilfully applied--their faces were drawn and strained. Their clothes, too, told of the attempt to keep up appearances. I felt a sympathy and fellowship for these unemployed; I wondered whether they too, were, by the force of circumstances, separated from their loved ones. Miss Burton, the lady of some importance, broke my train of thought by precipitately asking me to "come and have a cup of tea." She assured me she would not let me miss "old Tom"--calling the agent by the familiar diminutive--and that having sent for her he was bound to wait. "It makes all the difference in the world whether they send for you, or whether you go to them for an engagement," she told me, with a sententious nod of her head. She was so bright and vivacious, and so wholly un-selfconscious that, for a moment, I was drawn out of my dreamy loneliness. We went to a near-by hotel. "You take what you like," she said, summoning the waiter. "Beer for mine!" I took tea. While we sipped our respective beverages she told me about herself. She was a well-known comédienne--"'soubrettes' they called them in the old days," she volunteered. She had been with "Charley" Frohman off and on for years, and expected to go back to him.