The Honey-Pot. Countess Barcynska

came to rest on a girl of about her own age whose quiet manner and dress of severe black singled her out from the rest. She was tall and slight, very much in the style of the women in Shepperson's drawings. Her small features and graceful figure gave her a distinguished appearance. She looked what she was, a lady, and a stranger to her surroundings. She held a roll of music and glanced nervously about her until she became aware of Maggy's smiling regard. It seemed to encourage her. She returned the smile and advanced.

      "At which end will they begin?" she asked nervously, making it clear that she was an amateur.

      "Anywhere," replied Maggy with friendly cheerfulness. "You're not a pro.?"

      "No."

      "I thought not. I shouldn't let on if I were you. Managers fight shy of beginners. First thing they'll ask you at the table is what experience you've had. Haven't you been on the stage at all before?"

      "No, I've never appeared in public. I'm new to it all."

      "Been looking for a shop—an engagement—long?"

      "For five weeks. Ever since I came to London."

      The girl in black could not hide the note of disappointment that came into her voice. Maggy gave her an encouraging tap on the arm.

      "Five weeks!" she scoffed. "That's nothing. Lots of us are out for months. You'll know that if you ever hit real bad luck."

      "I can't wait months."

      "Hard up?" Maggy asked with quick understanding.

      "I shall be soon."

      "Same here. Tell me, where are you living? You're different to the crowd. I like you."

      The girl in black hesitated and got a little red.

      "I'm not living anywhere at present," she confessed. "I was in a boarding-house until to-day. I had to leave. I shall have to find rooms before night. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me where to look?"

      They had moved away from those nearest them. Each felt attracted to the other without knowing why.

      "Did they keep your box?"

      "No. Why should they?"

      "I thought you meant you couldn't pay."

      "No, it wasn't that. But I can't go back. A man came into my room last night—one of the men staying there. I rang the bell and called the landlady. I don't understand why, but she blamed me and was very offensive. I didn't go to bed again. I sat up, waiting for the morning."

      "The beast!"

      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."

      The girl in black was next. Her heart beat uncomfortably fast as she moved down. Had she to pitch her voice to fill that gaping void across the footlights? She shrank from singing to these blasé-looking men who gave the impression of damning before they heard. Then she saw that Maggy was still standing by the table and nodding encouragingly to her. It gave her heart. She handed her song to the pianist and commenced to sing.

      "Louder, please," said some one.

      She sang louder and lost her nervousness. It was not so difficult to fill that huge auditorium, after all. So far, she was the only one of them that had been allowed to sing her song half through.

      "Shouldn't mind hearing the rest of that another day," said the stage-manager, stopping her at last. "Not half bad, my dear. Name, please."

      She gave her name, Alexandra Hersey.

      "What have you been in?" came the query.

      Before she could answer Maggy chimed in.

      "She was with me on tour in 'The Camera Girl.' No. 2 Company."

      "Address?"

      Again Maggy came to the rescue.

      "Put her down to mine. 109 Sidey Street. Then you'll remember us both—p'r'aps!"

      She hooked her arm in Alexandra's and made for the wings. When they were in the passage facing the stage-door she said:

      "I'll help you find rooms if you like. I've nothing to do. I say, you can sing!"

      "If it hadn't been for you—"

      "Oh, rats!"

      "But it was awfully good of you," Alexandra maintained. "Is there a room in the house where you live?" she asked, actuated by a strong desire not to lose sight of her new acquaintance.

      "There's room in my room, that's all. I pay ten shillings a week. My landlady charges fifteen for two in it. That would be seven-and-six each. But"—she made a wry face—"you wouldn't like it. It's slummy. There's a smell of fried fish and a beastly row half the night. Still, you can have a look at it if you like."

      There was invitation in the tone.

      "I'd like to come," said Alexandra.

      "Right-O. Here's my motor car. The green one." She held up her hand to a 'bus driver. "My chauffeur doesn't like stopping, except for policemen."

      She gave Alexandra a push up and sprang on the footboard after her. They climbed to the top, and were rattled and jerked in the direction of the King's Cross Road.

      II

      One