I sat for an hour in a film agent's office which deserves the title of Heartbreak House. Six months ago the crowds of heroes, villains, heroines, and villainesses who clamoured for heroism or villainy became so great that they had to sit four deep down the stairs. Since that time the word has gone forth that there is no work to be had and no point in seeking it; but still every day they come, hopeful, bright-eyed, the girls all airs and graces, the men eager, self-reliant. In the waiting-room were six or seven exceedingly pretty fair-haired girls of assorted ages. Some friend had once committed one of the cardinal sins and told them how like Mary Pickford they were. They were now reaping the harvest of this dangerous suggestion. There was an old man with the face of a judge, a young man cut out to be a hero, and a number of vague people who looked in restlessly, and as restlessly went away. An enormously fat woman occupied the doorway, talking rapidly: "No fat parts going? Oh, well, I suppose something'll turn up some day. Nothing like hope, is there? And it's not easy for me to keep my weight up with everything so dear these days. Suppose I got thin? What would I do then? Oh, what a life, what a life!" * * * The agent entered the room. All the pretty girls pursed their lips and assumed a photographic smile, putting up what they hoped would be a barrage of beauty to demolish all obstacles. "Sorry, I can do nothing for you. There's no work!" Slowly the smile faded, and each girl looked five years older than girls of that age have any right to look. They fussed a moment with their handbags, brushed imaginary crumbs from their knees, lingered as if hoping against hope that some producer would dash into the office and cry, "Girls, I want you!" and then, with a sigh, departed; fawn coats, moleskin, and black coats. "Pretty awful, isn't it?" said the agent to me. "You wouldn't think they were out of work. That's part of the game: they must look smart!" * * * A big negro put his head round the door, took off a battered bowler, exposed his gums, and said: "Mornin', boss. Does any guy wanter a good ord'nary nigger?" As he went out he came into collision with a tall, pale young man who wore spats but no overcoat. He too, was sent away. "We get lots like that," said the agent, "well-bred young fellows wearing college ties, who manage to keep their spats white though their shoes probably need soleing. In fact, we get all sorts. But all the men and women who come up here looking as though a thousand a year would be an insult would be grateful for two pound a week. They all look smart." * * * That is part of their tragedy. They may be "resting," but they cannot afford to stop acting. The only consolation is that, as everybody knows, luck turns, the darkest hour precedes the dawn, and so on, and so on! Hope has kept more people alive than all doctors ever born. Madonna of the Pavement