The cheery look left Maggy’s face, giving place to one of deep resentment. "The man, I mean," she said, "though I’ve no doubt the woman was just as bad. There are houses like that. Fancy you not knowing it. I should have ... Here, they’re going to begin. Keep by me. I’ll see you through." The stage-manager rapped on the table. "Silence, please! We’ll commence now." An immediate hush followed. The groups broke up, spreading across the stage, facing the footlights. Such indifference to the occasion as many of them had hitherto evinced was gone now. They were there to be engaged. Even the most self-assured became serious, made so by the competitive equation. Only twelve girls and three men were wanted to complete the ranks of the chorus, and here were nearly forty applicants for the vacancies. "Come on, come on. Who’s first? You with the boa," proceeded the stage-manager. "What’s your song?" The girl indicated handed her music to the pianist. He rattled off the prelude without the waste of a moment. The girl sang a few bars, and was interrupted by: "That’ll do. Next!" Nothing more was said or asked. The girl took her sheet of music, and effaced herself. With equal celerity the next dozen were disposed of. Not more than one out of four was called to the table for her or his name to be recorded. All the while the singing was going on the stage-manager kept up a running fire of remarks at the expense of the singer. Generally they were merely sarcastic; some were rude. The girl in black kept close to Maggy who looked on unperturbed, now and then jerking out a subdued comment on the proceedings, partly to herself, partly for the information of her companion. "Now it’s Dickson, poor kid! Look at the state she’s in. Silly of her to come. Powell won’t let her open her mouth.... There you are! Off she goes. She’s crying. The brute! He needn’t have _said_ it! ... That’s Mortimer. She’ll get taken on.... Knew it at once. Down goes her name—address ’Makehaste Mansions!’ Don’t they get through us quick? We’re not human beings, only voices and figures. My turn!" She walked confidently down to the table, ignoring the piano. "Where’s your song?" inquired the stage-manager. "Won’t you take my voice on trust, Mr. Powell?" was her jaunty reply. "It’s like a bird’s." "Nightingale, I suppose?" he jeered. "No, bird of Paradise. Aren’t I good enough to look at?" After a momentary hesitation, during which he appraised her face and figure, he said: "Got a photo of yourself in fleshings?" "Not here. Plenty at my agent’s—Stannard’s." "All right. Name, please. Next."