The Irish comedian figured the average income of an agent who "placed" several hundred actors, with salaries ranging from thirty to three hundred dollars a week, at $5,000 a year. "And from the fish-hand they give you when you come lookin' for an engagement you'd think _we_ were the grafters--damned old parasites!" When, at last, the lady agent returned from her conference, I timidly made known my wants. Perhaps I looked like a "non-retainer," as the comedian dubbed them, for the corpulent person looked me over suspiciously. "Had any experience?" she broke in. "One season," I responded. "Well, you might leave your address," she snapped, and directed me to an assistant. I went back to Miss Burton's friend. Mr. Tom was an Englishman, with the manners of a gentleman to commend him if nothing else. He greeted me pleasantly and asked me to wait. My heart bounded in anticipation. Presently he handed me a letter. I recognized the address upon the envelope as that of a prominent manager. I was told to go to his office, present the letter and return to report the outcome to the agent. I rushed off with my mind in a whirl. Already I was outlining a telegram to Will, telling him of my engagement. I began to plan how I should remake my last season's dresses to avoid the expense of a new wardrobe. Only once before had I gone direct to a manager for an engagement. I look back upon the incident I am about to relate with amusement at my own expense. To anybody and everybody who is interested in the stage the name of Charles Frohman was and still remains a kind of magic. When it was determined that the stage was to be my avocation--I use the word advisedly, since I had never been taught to look upon any profession in the light of a vocation--I came direct to New York with the purpose of calling upon Mr. Frohman, and placing my talent at his command. I remember I dressed myself carefully. I even powdered my face heavily, to give the ear-marks of intimate acquaintance with the make-up box. When I entered the office in the Empire Theatre Building, the office boy was engaged in pasting newspaper clippings in a scrap-book. A pretty, pert girl was type-writing at the other end of the room. The office boy looked up enquiringly. I took my courage in both hands. "Is Mr. Frohman in?" I enquired. The boy shuffled into the adjoining room. I busied myself by looking at the photographs of the actresses which lined the walls; my heart was pumping fiercely, but I "acted" the part of a young lady with plenty of _savoir faire_. The boy returned, followed by a middle-aged man who smiled pleasantly upon me. "Mr. Frohman?" I ventured. "Mr. Frohman is not in," he responded with a bland smile. I was about to enquire when he was expected when I caught the reflection of the office boy in a mirror on the wall. He was winking broadly to the girl at the typewriter; I felt the blood rising to my face, and I fear I made a somewhat confused exit.