She waited half an hour, feeling hot and ashamed and troubled with perplexing thoughts, and listening to the jingle of money in the adjoining room, mingled with the ripple of laughter and sometimes the exchange of angry words. At length the agent came back, saying, “Vell, vat can I do for you to-day, my dear?” He had been drinking, his tone was familiar, and he placed himself on the end of the sofa upon which Glory was seated. Glory rose immediately. “I came to ask if you have heard of anything for me,” she said. “Sit down, my dear.” “No, thank you.” “Heard anything? Not yet, my dear. You must vait----” “I think I've waited long enough, and if your promises amount to anything you'll get me an appearance at all events.” “So I vould, my dear. I vould get you an extra turn at the Vashington, but it's very expensive, and you've got no money.” “Then why did you take what I had if you can do nothing? Besides, I don't want anything but what my talents can earn. Give me a letter to a manager--for mercy's sake, do something for me!” There was a shrug of the Ghetto as the man rose and said, “Very vell, if it's like that, I'll give you a letter and velcome.” He sat at a table and wrote a short note, sealed it carefully in an envelope which was backed with advertisements, then gave it to Glory, and said, “Daddle doo. You'll not require to come again.” Going downstairs she looked at the letter. It was addressed to an acting manager at a theatre in the farthest west of London. The passages of the house and the pavements outside were now empty; it was nearly two o'clock, and snow was beginning to fall. She was feeling cold and a little hungry, but, making up her mind to deliver the letter at once, she hastened to the Temple station. There was a _matinée_, so the acting manager was “in front.” He took the letter abruptly, opened it with an air of irritation, glanced at it, glanced at Glory, looked at the letter again, and then said in a strangely gentle voice, “Do you know what's in this, my girl?” “No,” said Glory. “Of course you don't--look,” and he gave her the letter to read. It ran: “Dear ----: This wretched young ginger is worrying me for a shop. She isn't worth a ----. Get rid of her, and oblige Josephs.” Glory flushed up to the forehead and bit her lip; then a little nervous laugh broke from her throat, and two great tears came rolling from her eyes. The acting manager took the letter out of her hands and tapped her kindly on the shoulder. “Never mind, my child. Perhaps we'll disappoint him yet. Tell me all about it.” She told him everything, for he had bowels of compassion. “We can't put you on at present,” he said, “but our saloon contractor wants a young lady to give out programmes, and if that will do to begin with----”