He put his hands in his pockets and surveyed her compassionately. Belonging as he did to the class that shelters its women it still hurt him to see women engaged in fighting for bread. It was more desperate still when they fought for honor too, or held it above the price of bread. "Why did you send me to the Pall Mall if you knew they wouldn’t want—any one straight-laced?" "I can’t ask every girl who comes to me for a job to sign an affidavit concerning her morals. Why are you on the stage at all if you’ve got different ideas to the others? You haven’t an earthly. Might as well buy a toothbrush." "Buy a toothbrush?" "To sweep out an Augean stable." He scribbled some addresses on a half sheet of paper. "There’s just a chance these aren’t filled up. Mention my name. I don’t hold out any hope, though." He hesitated for a minute. "Are you bound to go on at this? Haven’t you a home to go to?" "I’m bound to go on," she said, trying to keep the desperate note out of her voice. "Well, good luck." Stannard held open the door for her. "Poor devil!" he said as he shut it. XII All the names which Stannard had given her were those of minor managers. It was late in the season and their companies would in all probability be made up and booked for the road. Still she went to them. There was a bare chance that one of them might have a vacancy. For two hours she hung about their offices waiting for an interview, only to waste her time in the end. "Full up" was the answer she got to each application. The last place she called at was situated in a block of buildings off Shaftesbury Avenue. As she left it a door facing her on the opposite side of the passage opened and a man in a frock coat and silk hat came out. He stopped short, looked her up and down and spoke. "Excuse me, but are you out of an engagement?" "Yes," she replied, a last glimmer of hope flickering within her, the silk hat suggesting something managerial. The stranger’s next words confirmed her in this idea. "I believe you’re the very person I’ve been looking for for a week. The question is, can you sing?" "Yes." "Then come in." He threw the door open again and followed her in. The room contained two chairs, a desk, a small grand piano, one or two playbills on the walls and several diagrams of the larynx, looking not unlike a map of the tube railways. "This is my practise room and therefore bare," he explained. "It’s bad to sing in a room blocked up with furniture. Breaks up the voice, you know. By the way, my name’s Norburton—Gerald Norburton. You may have heard of it," he added modestly. Alexandra had heard of it. The name was that of a singer of some repute. "Oh, then, you’re not an agent," she said, a little disappointed.