On the pavements of the Strand the snow had turned to slush; and from the river a fog was blowing up, which got into the girl's throat, and made her cough. She mounted a flight of gloomy stairs, and pulled a bell. Already her bearing had lost something that had distinguished it in the summer: something of courage. She rang the bell deprecatingly, as if ashamed. The anteroom into which she passed had become painfully familiar to her, like the faces of many of the occupants. They all wore the same expression--an air of repressed eagerness, of diffidence striving to look assured. The walls were covered with theatrical photographs, and in a corner a pimply youth sat writing at a table. What he wrote nobody knew or cared. The crowd had but one thought--the door that communicated with the agent's private office, to which they prayed, though they were no longer sanguine, that they would gain admission. It was four o'clock, and at five the office would close. There were so many of them that it was impossible for Mr. Passmore to interview everybody. Which of them would be lucky to-day? Mamie also looked towards the door, and from the door back to her companions in distress. A little fair woman in a light fawn costume--terribly unsuitable to the season, but her least shabby--met her eyes and spoke. "Have you got an appointment?" she asked in a low voice. "No." "Oh, then you won't see him," said the little woman more cheerfully. "I thought, as you'd come in so late, that you had an appointment. _I've_ been here since twelve." The door opened, and Mr. Passmore appeared on the threshold. He did not say "good-afternoon" to his clients; he cast an indifferent gaze round the room, and signed to a cadaverous man who sat sucking the handle of his umbrella. "Here! _You!_" he said, retiring again. The cadaverous man rose hurriedly, among envious glances, and twenty-five heads that had been lifted in expectation drooped dejectedly. The men whose watches were not pawned looked to see the time. "What's your line?" said the little woman, addressing Mamie once more. "I beg your pardon? Oh, I'm trying for my first engagement; I haven't acted yet at all." The other showed surprise and some contempt. "A novice, are you! Good Lord, it's no good your coming to the agents, my dear; they can't find shops for _us_." "I paid Mr. Passmore the usual fee," said Mamie; "he promised he'd do what he could." The little woman smiled, and turned her shoulder to her, declining further discussion. Another girl rang the bell, but withdrew with a sigh as she perceived the futility of waiting. The cadaverous man came out, with "an engagement" writ large upon his features. He stowed a type-written part into the pocket of his overcoat, and nodded good-bye to an acquaintance, whose cast of countenance proclaimed him a low comedian. "Got anything, dear boy?" inquired the latter in a husky whisper.