"You don't remember me, Mr. Keal," began Lily, timidly. "I was introduced to you once in the Strand by my brother-in-law, Richard Granville." "I'm sure you were," interrupted Mr. Keal, curtly; but when he looked up and saw that Lily was pretty he changed his tone. "That's all right; don't be frightened. I've met so many girls in my time. Well, what can I do for you?" "I had a letter of introduction from my brother-in-law, Mr. Granville," Lily began again. "Never heard of the gentleman," said Mr. Keal. Norah, feeling that she and Lily stood once more on an equality, came forward with assurance. "We thought you were choosing girls for the chorus in 'Miss Elsie of Chelsea.'" "Full up," the manager snapped. The Jewish young man bent over and whispered something to his master, who took a long look at the girls. "However, I might find you two extra places. What experience have you had? None, eh? Can you sing? You think so. Um--yes--all girls think they can sing. Well, I'll give you a chance, but I can't offer more than a guinea a week of seven performances. If you don't like to take that, there are plenty who will and be grateful. It's my Number One company." Norah did not wait for Lily, but accepted for both of them. "Are they going to let us have the club in Lisle Street, Fitzmaurice?" the manager turned to inquire of his assistant. "Yes, Mr. Keal. The club has arranged to lend their concert-room every morning and afternoon this week, but if you want any evening calls we shall have to make other arrangements." "But ---- it all," Mr. Keal exclaimed, "when are we going to get the stage?" "They won't be able to let us have it till the week before Christmas." "That's a nice ruddy job," grumbled Mr. Keal. "All right, dears," he said, "go in there and get your contracts." He pointed to the room adjoining, where, amid an infernal rattle of typewriters, Lily and Norah sold their untried talents to Mr. Keal for a guinea a week of seven performances, extra matinées to be paid for at half rate, and a fortnight's salary in lieu of notice to be considered just. When she took up the pen to sign the contract Norah paused. "You've put your own name, Lily," she said, doubtfully. "Oh, I can't be bothered to think of a new name. Besides, my own is quite a good one for the stage." "Yes, but I ought to change mine. I think I shall call myself Dorothy Lonsdale. Do you like that?" "You've got a sister called Dorothy. Won't she be rather annoyed?" Norah tried to think of another name, but she was confused by the noise of the typewriters, and at last she ejaculated, impatiently: "Oh, bother, I must be Dorothy! I've always known it would suit me much better than her. I shouldn't mind if she called herself Norah. Besides, I sha'n't be Dorothy Caffyn, so what does it matter?" They were told that their contracts would be handed to them at the rehearsal called for to-morrow morning at the Hungarian Artistes' Club, Lisle Street, Leicester Square.