But Eunice Terry was not in all respects the counterpart of these other girls. At least she was ambitious. She desired success, fame—that is to say, she desired the advantages these conditions carried with them. It did not occur to her that to be successful and beloved of the public one must give the public something by way of return. She was out for her chance without even considering whether or no she would be able to make good if she got it. So, instead of thinking about her profession, she devoted herself entirely to acquiring silly habits of speech and little vulgarities of attire which robbed her of all her good taste and most of her good looks. On the day Eliphalet Cardomay engaged her he made the following note in a little book kept for that purpose. “18th January. Engaged Eunice Terry. A guinea for eight performances and one-fourteenth for any addition. Looks about twenty years of age, pretty, slightly wistful; evidently inexperienced. Might be suitable for very sympathetic parts. Note: the name Eunice Terry seems strangely out of keeping—Dorothy or Mary would be more appropriate.” Having made this entry he forgot all about her until one day when he decided to revive “East Lynne,” and then, in looking through his first-impression book for a suitable “Joyce,” the faithful nurse, he came across the paragraph, and at once dispatched the call-boy for Mr. Manning. “Manning,” he said, “I’ve been thinking of Miss Terry for the part of Joyce. Is she still with us?” “Yes, Guv’nor. Of course, we’ve never tried her out.” Eliphalet nodded. “That should hardly matter. I have a note here that she is simple and sympathetic. With these attributes the part will play itself. Will you send her to me?” There was a tremendous flutter in the dressing-room when Mr. Manning popped in his head and said: “Guv’nor wants to see you, Miss Terry. Look slippy!” Eunice, dressed for the street, felt her hour of triumph was at hand. “If I’d only known in the morning,” she gasped, “I’d have put on my fawn coat and skirt. This old thing’s a rag. Does this white fox look dirty, dear?” “No; you look sweet, dear.” Followed some frenzied powdering—some dexterous touches with a be-rouged hare’s-foot—the borrowing of a pair of white gloves from one girl, “that lovely parasol” from another, and a hurried departure to meet her fate. At the door of Mr. Cardomay’s room she halted. It would not do to appear flurried. She must be calm and remember all the wonderful things she had learnt during the last six weeks. She must stand her ground as an artiste, and it was comforting to reflect upon the irreproachable plinth provided by her patent-leather boots, with the uppers that soared upwards to the height of her knee. She knocked, and heard the answering “Come in.”