She hands it to a door-keeper, who may possibly be considerate, but cannot offer her a chair. There is no waiting-room; she waits in a draughty, tiny passage, stage hands constantly squeezing by her. There is a rehearsal; she must wait, or come back in an hour's time. She walks round and looks into the shops in Leicester Square, and returns thoroughly fatigued and a little pale, at four o'clock. She is shown into an office, and by virtue of her letter of introduction is asked to sit down. A few questions are put to her about her past work: she does not know what part the manager has in mind, and puts forward inept qualifications. In two or three minutes the important man has formed his opinion of her face, carriage, expression, and has decided if he will remember her or not. Her name being average, the odds are that he will not; but he murmurs, "If anything turns up, I will let you know," and her big chance is over. There is nothing approaching an audition, such as a singer gets. It is the only opportunity afforded her, this poor and hopeless method of proving her capacity as an actress. It leaves her poorer for the day's outlay in food. She walks back to the little room, her foothold in London--the great art market. This is a "congenial" day's work, which may be repeated for weeks, and it occurs on an average in every three months. The adventure of it stales very quickly. Let there be no mistake in the mind of the reader. This is not only the experience of a would-be actress, a well-trained, medal-laden aspirant from one of the good dramatic schools, but is one of the bitter and frequent experiences of the thoroughly capable, trained, and occasionally well-salaried actress, who has failed to arrive, during her eighteen to twenty years of experience, at the much coveted, and supposedly safe position at the top of the theatrical ladder. Suppose our average actress is lucky, and her letter of introduction gains her a small part in the London production. Into her three lines she tries to crowd all she can of what she has learned from teachers and experience. It is her opportunity. She has stepped forward amongst those fortunate ones whose names are mentioned in the programme. She starts for rehearsal happily enough from the little room in Bloomsbury, passes the door-keeper without question, and takes up her stand in the wings. There she stays three hours. She has companionship in hushed whispers, and the right to exist. At two o'clock her act has not yet been reached, and the artists are allowed to leave the theatre for half an hour to get lunch. As she is not paid for rehearsals, she cannot afford more than sixpence for a meal; so her repast is necessarily a light one. At five, rehearsal is dismissed, and she has gone through her part twice. Five minutes would cover her actual acting for the day; and having stood about for nearly six hours she walks back home to her room.