"I didn't want to make a fuss."

"You were afraid to. You're afraid of him, that's what you are!"

"Stop jeering at me!" said Trampy, shaking her violently. "You're dragging me in the mud; it's like those whippings of yours! I'm tired of the affronts you put upon me! You ought to have married your Jimmy and left me in peace."

"I can't say," sneered Lily, "that I remember running after you!"

"That Jimmy!" repeated Trampy. "I'll kill that fellow like a dog! If I don't do it now, I will later, in a year, in a hundred years, if necessary. I'll kill him like a dog!"

Lily gave a little laugh as she went out, followed by Trampy. She did not wish, in that lobby, before the people passing, to look like a woman insulted by her husband. She laughed bravely, as she used to, on the stage, with Ma, in the days of the great smackings. To see her laugh, one would have thought that Trampy was telling her a story; and he repeated:

"I'll kill him like a dog, like a dog!"

"Pooh!" said Lily, who knew Trampy. "You talk too much to act."

"We shall see. Where's your Jimmy hiding?"

"You'd be nicely caught, if you met him," said Lily, who had just noticed Jimmy leaving the music-hall to go to the Kolossal: "there he is, behind you."...

"What's that? Don't you try to get at me!" said Trampy.

"I tell you, he's behind you, damn it! Turn round and you'll see ... if you have eyes to see with."

Trampy turned round, half-reluctantly: he didn't like those jokes, but he didn't wish to seem afraid.

"Where? Where do you see Jimmy?" he grumbled.

"There, in front of you," insisted Lily, pointing with her finger and pushing him by the shoulder. "Off you go!"

There was no drawing back. He marched straight up to Jimmy, who did not even recognize him and who stopped politely. But Trampy had time for reflection, no doubt: a clearer perception of professional brotherhood. Better, after all, to remain friends ... among artistes. And, when he stood before him:

"H'm, h'm. Have you got a light about you, Jimmy? Give us a match," said Trampy, taking a cigar from his pocket.



CHAPTER V

It stifled Lily, for the moment. She would rather have received twenty "contracts" with the steel buckle than see that cowardice in her husband. She had her Pa's blood in her, damn it!

"What!" she thought. "He believes me to misconduct myself with Jimmy, and he is too much of a coward to object!"

But there was nothing to be done. Trampy was as incapable of anger as of love. All those years of a low life had degraded him to that point. And Trampy had even lost the right to bear Jimmy a grudge, made as though he had forgotten everything, said that, after all, it was much better to be friends. And all this under Lily's critical eye!

Jimmy! To be obliged to look pleasant at Jimmy! It gave him a lump in his throat. Fortunately, he had the others, the crowd of assiduous pros who thronged round his wife. Against those he gave free scope to his jealousy, and showed himself as strict with the rest as he had been accommodating with Jimmy. He meant to keep an eye on his wife:

"A married woman, on the stage, alone! I won't have any more of that!"

He hit upon a contrivance to be always with her: he would be her "comic." It was a new system which had come into fashion: the most plastic performances spoiled by the juxtaposition of their caricatures; acrobats, Olympian gods, parodied by a merry-andrew in a ridiculous coat: just as though Nunkie Fuchs, for instance, had taken it into his head to appear with his Three Graces and mimic their tricks, kicking about at the end of a wire with his fat, fatherly paunch and his round, silly face.

And Trampy, riding behind Lily, would simply give a parody of her tricks; it meant little work to him and was as good a way as another of going on the stage with her and establishing his title to her work and her salary....

And off they went again, with the basket trunk, and the bikes; and on the stage, every night, Lily, looking like a goddess, and Trampy, dressed in rags, went through their tricks and smiled ... applause for her, always; none for him, ever. Lily wore a very sad look in consequence, when they returned to the wings: a poor little wife, so sorry for her husband; but she triumphed at the bottom of her heart, while Trampy turned green with spite. He was furious with Lily: tried to make her fall, pushed her in turning; but Lily was too clever and sat as firmly on her bike as Ave Maria walked her slack-wire, when the brother used to shake it on purpose, whip in hand and snarling as if to bite.

Oh, if Lily had not made efforts to be a good little wife! Trampy was becoming unbearable. She posed as the poor little thing, despised, deceived and betrayed by her husband; she loved to hear people tell her so, called them to witness and continued, but without result, to make inquiries about Ave Maria.

And there were everlasting scenes at home. Lily had enough of it, more than enough of it! She had even decided to go away, to return to London; but, worn out with worry, she had to take to her bed, with a high fever. It was the finishing stroke: no work,—all the savings gone....

Trampy, fortunately, found an engagement:

"It's all right, the neighbors will look after you," he said, as he took his leave. "A man's duty is to see that his wife doesn't starve, eh, darling? I'm going to make money, too, and I'll bring you heaps when I come back; and I'll send you some. That's the sort of man I am. I don't talk of 'my money!'"

* * * * *

Lily was left alone in Berlin.

Generally, she hated the hotels frequented by artistes, but she was very glad to be in one this time. She, poor little broken-down thing, was not left to the care of a common servant; she had nice, kind nurses.... And she had no lack of friends who took interest in her, very sincerely, for that matter, for she was a favorite with all of them, that pretty Miss Lily, who would soon be free....

Lily let herself be coddled. Pending the arrival of the money which Trampy was to send, she wanted for nothing, especially in the way of luxuries: chocolates, sweets, flowers, they brought her everything. Her friends passing through Berlin, the impersonator, the Paras, many others, hearing that she was ill, came to see her, treated her as a lady, cried out how well she was looking, how pretty she was and how it suited her to be ill in bed.

Lily thought that very nice, put on a languid air, like a poor little jaded thing that had got out of gear:

"I shall die of overdoing it, I know I shall," she said. "I've been at the bike ever since I was that high"—raising her hand twelve inches above the bed—"and my heart's worn out by the hard work. My knees, too. Sit down there on the basket trunk. You at the foot of the bed. Have a chocolate."

Then she turned over in her sheets, which molded her firm, plump shape, took a bag of sweets from the chair beside her and offered it round. Poor little martyr, she had been forbidden them by the doctor, because of a cough.... But she took them all the same, merely for the sake of taking them, with a graceful movement, her bare arm outstretched, her wrist making a supple curve, like a swan's neck, as she dipped her pretty hand into the bag.

* * * * *

In addition to her regular friends, such as the impersonator or the Paras, others, the people staying in the hotel, would tap discreetly at the glass door between her room and the passage, come in on tip-toe, speak in a whisper.

"What nonsense!" Lily would say. "I'm not dead yet, you know!"

And she laughed, and "Ugh! Ugh!" a cough or so, a matter of lifting her embroidered handkerchief to her mouth, a favorite gesture. And there were stories from all parts, the cackle of the profession. The Paras were living together now, as they explained to her. The parrots? No go; given them up; one had its neck wrung by a monkey in Chicago; another died of consumption at Stockholm; the rest of the troupe sold to the stage-doorkeepers of the different variety-theaters. His sight was beginning to fail. She wanted smartness; wasn't—how should he put it? The husband looked for a word—wasn't "Tottie" enough. However, they managed somehow, as "eccentric duetists." Lily thought that very nice, those two talents combined, very original; but could they give her any news of Ave Maria ... a great artiste ... on the wire?...

If ever Lily might have hoped to receive news of Ave Maria, it was during this illness, from the artistes who visited her, on their way from anywhere to God knows where. Lily had news of everybody: of Mirzah, the white elephant, who had to be pole-axed for killing his keeper; of Captain North's seals; of the Three Graces, who were doing triumphantly in England; of Poland, the Parisienne, now starring at Bill and Boom's. Tom was talked about: biceps like thighs, now: a hornpipe danced on the hands. She had news of the Pawnees, of the Hauptmanns. Roofer was sending out four new troupes, to Canada, Australia, India, Cape Colony: the Greater-England Girls. She had news of the New Zealanders and of her cousin Daisy, who seemed to find the star business jolly hard work:

"The wind-bag!" said Lily.

They talked of Jimmy, of dogs, cats and monkeys and of Tom Grave and Butt Snyders, those great breakneck acrobats: they talked of one and all, but not a word of Ave Maria. They knew her by reputation, as one who had been through the mill, more than Lily had, as Lily modestly admitted.

"Darling," said the impersonator affectionately, "don't bother about that Ave Maria of yours. I'm jealous. Be mine, darling! How well we two should get on together, eh, Lily?"

"Hands off!" said Lily. "Be good ... there ... like that ... down by your sides ... or you'll get a smacking!"

Concerts were got up for Lily's amusement. Sketch-comedians pulled their faces: a musician twanged his banjo. At other times, by closing her eyes, Lily could have imagined herself in an aviary: the Whistling Wonder imitated the nightingale, the thrush, the lark. Another, an equilibrist, showed her how, when he was obliged to stay in bed with a broken leg and had nobody to wait on him, he used to wait on himself by going round the room on his hands ... like that. Lily was given, for nothing, a performance which was worth a whole music-hall program. To put everybody at their ease, Lily told them to smoke, took a puff or two at a cigarette herself—"Ugh! Ugh!"—almost choked....

They amused themselves, among themselves, free from any constraint due to the presence of jossers. Lily joked with them as she used to do with the apprentices in the mornings, when they showed one another their bruises of the day before. She made them look at her pigeon's egg, on the side of her foot, the little ball-shaped muscle special to her profession, like the triceps of the pugilist or the dancing-girls' calves. She was vain enough to put on a silk stocking, poked out her foot from under the bedclothes, let them feel "her egg," made it jump under their fingers by a sudden contraction.

"Is that all you've got to show us, darling?" asked the impersonator.

"You don't want much, I don't think!" said Lily, pulling back her foot under the quilt.

The incident was interrupted by new-comers who had also known Lily when she was that high. They brought fresh news from Lisle Street. They had had a drink with P. T. Clifton himself, had had a drink with an author who was writing a book on the business.

"Another josser who's sure to talk a lot of nonsense!" cried Lily. "If only they told the truth and described us as we are, a sight better than the society ladies, who come and wait for pros outside the stage-door!"

And they went on. The healths they had drunk with this girl and that girl; and new turns: competitors who were cropping up ... names ... names ... Ave Maria? Dead, they said: somewhere in Ecuador or Peru.

Then Lily stretched herself to her full length in the sheets, feeling weary, weary, crushed under all that talk.

And Trampy just didn't write, sent no money at all. She blushed for him ... in spite of her wish to catch him tripping, before witnesses. She was ashamed to be his wife, his only wife, his little wife for ever.

On that day, as it happened, Jimmy came to pay her a visit. His engagement at the Kolossal was ending. He was to perform at the London Hippodrome, before going to the States. A certain air of respect surrounded him from the moment he entered the room, that Jimmy who already stood higher than any of them among the famous bill-toppers! And they gradually retired, as though Lily would prefer that. It was no use her saying, "Do stay!" They went all the same; and Lily was left alone with him, a little embarrassed and yet flattered at being thought on such good terms with Jimmy. As for him, he had just heard about Lily's illness, Trampy's absence, and hurried to see her, bringing her the good news that the lawsuit was over. Trampy would have nothing more to pay....

From that day, Jimmy was sometimes seen at Lily's. He spoke little, sat down on the basket trunk, listened, thought of things. He was known to have his mind full of an invention superior to "Bridging the Abyss," one could expect anything from him: a wonderful chap Jimmy, a bit cracked, though, with ideas of his own which went the round of the profession and were variously appreciated. A fund for stage-children; a reserve upon their earnings, to be banked and kept untouched till they came of age; a home of rest for the old and the sick; a weekly matinee for the benefit of the fund....

Jimmy described the piteous lot of those who grow old in a profession intended for youth: but a few shillings a month paid into the fund, a benefit performance or two ... and our home is established and endowed and we should see no more stars flung aside, to die in hopeless poverty, after amusing crowds of people for years and years.

"I'm with you," said Lily, laughing. "Put me down for a pension for my old age ... if ever I reach old age ... ugh, ugh!"

And she coughed, with the embroidered handkerchief at her lips.

But Lily's joke was left unechoed: everybody talked professional shop, quoted figures; the habit of signing contracts, of avoiding the traps laid by the agents had given them all a keen sense of business. And the frequent traveling, in the absence of education, had made them sharp at understanding, quick in the uptake. Their clean-shaven faces fell into wise folds, like lawyers'.

Jimmy also explained his idea about the apprentices, the compulsory so much per cent., the inalienable deposit paid in by the Pas and Mas ... and, much more still, by the profs and managers....

"Good!" said Lily. "I'm with you!"

There was a general laugh. The Whistling Wonder interrupted the conversation by quacking like a duck at Jimmy and cooing like a pigeon at Lily. Jimmy got up and said good-by, pleased to see Lily making daily progress.

"Ah, Lily," they said again, when he had gone, "that's the one you ought to have married, not the other!"

And thereupon they began to pursue their favorite theme and amuse themselves by describing the awful troubles which she would get into one day with "the other," that drunkard;—the man with the thirty-six girls! And they laughed and they laughed, my! Lily herself held her sides with laughing.

All this was stage effect, professional exaggeration. Lily dared not indulge in it before Jimmy. She was more sincere, always a little embarrassed, in the presence of that man toward whom everybody was driving her, as though they all saw farther into her life than she herself could. She was no longer ill, only tired, with an accumulation of past wearinesses that made her love to lie down flat. But she would get up to-morrow, instead of remaining in bed to see her friends; no humbug before Jimmy.

The next day when he came, Lily was alone. So much the better, he had something to say to her. He had made up his mind that day. His own present prosperity formed too great a contrast with the poverty of Lily ... that poor kiddie who had run away from home in pursuit of happiness and whom he now found here, in this squalid room.... It was all very well to theorize about children who have earned fortunes and who haven't a farthing; but that was mere talk! Suppose he helped Lily a little in the meantime. He had prepared all sorts of good reasons; he had found a smart excuse, the great excuse of the music-hall, that he had been betting on horses and losing. He would ask Lily to keep his money for him, as a kindness, otherwise he simply couldn't help it, his money burned a hole in his pocket. Then, on second thought, why all that fuss? Hadn't he known her since she was that high? And, the moment he came in, he just handed Lily a thousand-mark note:

"For the law-costs, Lily! And, anything over, for your expenses, till Trampy's money comes. Only too pleased to be of any use. You can pay it back when it suits you. And good-by, Lily, ta-ta!"

And he hurried out, leaving Lily with the thousand marks in her hand.

Lily was stupefied and confused. She asked herself why? why? a real piece of brain-work, which made her head ache. Anyhow she would give back the money to-morrow! She wouldn't keep it! Trampy would be sure to bring some; it was impossible that he should bring nothing; but, come what may, she would give back the money to-morrow! She took the great oath of the stage upon it: three fingers of her right hand uplifted; her left hand on the lucky charm. And then she went and shut the door, turned the key in the lock and lay down....

* * * * *

A noise woke her: some one was knocking outside; but, before she could get out of bed, one of the glass panes of the door broke into fragments. Somebody had smashed it with his elbow. A hand came through the opening, turned back the key. The door opened and Trampy entered, raging, growling:

"There's a man here!"

"You won't find him; you can kill me if you do!" cried Lily.

She expected a terrible scene. Trampy, drunk, had the look which he wore on his bad days. He peered into the corners, turned a cunning eye on Lily.

Trampy had spent the evening at the cafe and there heard of the visits which Lily received during his absence. The neighbors he didn't mind about, but Jimmy. Jimmy again! The damned dog! Why should he poke his nose in? And, perhaps, at heart, Trampy was not sorry to have a scene with Lily, for he wasn't bringing home a pfennig, having spent all his money on champagne with girls. He felt himself at fault. He would get out of it with violence.

"There's a man here!" repeated Trampy, walking up to Lily like a madman.

She was humiliated to the core when she saw Trampy, dazed with tobacco, heavy with beer, stoop and look under the bed. And, suddenly, seeing the banknote which Lily had laid on the table, Trampy shouted:

"You can't deny it this time. Tell me where the money comes from!"

"It's from Jimmy," said Lily, beside herself. "He thinks of me, Jimmy does, while you leave me here to starve. It's ... it's for the law-costs."

"Oh, that's another thing!" said Trampy, putting the note in his pocket.

"Let the money be!" cried Lily, leaping out of bed. "Don't you touch it!"

"Everything here belongs to me, I should think," said Trampy, a little more calmly, already overcome with drunken drowsiness. "Everything, even a dear little wifie," he continued, putting his snout under Lily's disgusted nose.

But she gave a movement of revulsion so spontaneous that Trampy turned pale under the insult:

"W-what! N-no love?" he stammered. "I'm not used to that. I can get l-l-love for the asking ... at the ca-ca-cafe ... or the th-theater ... or anywhere."

And Trampy, making a false step, caught hold of the curtain and drew it back.

In the pitiless light of the morning, he appeared to Lily like a drowned man, with a puffed-out face, swollen eyes and wan cheeks. To think that she belonged to that! Lily spat at him in contempt. Oh, rather sleep with lizards and guinea-pigs than that; rather with a woolly dog, like Poland, that Parisienne! Oh, to get rid of him and be free again, thought Lily, never again to have Trampy before her eyes! And, suddenly, her mind was made up. She dressed herself hurriedly.

"Where are you going?" asked Trampy.

"I'm off!" said Lily. "I've had enough of this!"

"What's that?" said Trampy, dull-mouthed, flinging his body across the bed. "What's that? Say it again!"

"I say I hate the sight of you! I'm going back to my Pa and Ma!"

"You, you're going back to ... well, good-by, darling, goo-good ... goo-good-by," stammered Trampy, sprawling on the bed, among the disordered clothes....

Lily moved freely round the room, without even troubling about him, like one who has made up her mind once and for all. She packed up her things in the basket trunk. She put her bike outside the door; and, just as she was going to look for a neighbor to help her down with her trunk, an idea entered her head. She stopped on the threshold, came back to Trampy, slipped her hand into his pocket and gingerly took out the banknote:

"An insult like that!" she muttered. "I'd rather starve than not give Jimmy back the money!"



CHAPTER VI

"Lily!"

She thought she heard herself called, in her dream, just because she was back in her room again, in London, among familiar objects. She felt as if her life was going on exactly as in the old days, as if nothing had happened in between. Her marriage? A nightmare. And her home-coming yesterday had been very nice: no questions asked, no whys and hows. Her parents knew, of course. They knew all about her troubles with Trampy. But no reproaches, nothing: kisses, everybody very happy, including herself. She snuggled under the bedclothes, in the hollow left by Glass-Eye, who had gone down-stairs. Lily felt sorry that she had left her trunk at the hotel, when she thought of the cordial welcome she had received at the hands of Pa and Ma.

It was quite three weeks since she left her husband. She went over it all again in her head. Her departure from Berlin! She meant to go straight to Jimmy, first, and give him back that money; only, those Vienna hats, displayed in the shop-windows, those dresses, those boots, when she saw all that, Lily understood that she could not return to London, to her parents, with dingy-looking clothes, after her successes on the continent! Pa and Ma would have laughed in her face.

Lily felt bound to say that she had been most reasonable: three hundred marks for that Vienna dress, which suited her so well; why, Jimmy himself would have approved.

"Let's see!"

She reckoned on her fingers: forty marks the hat, three hundred the dress; and the underthings, chemises, stays, a silk petticoat, boots ... that came to ... came to ... a week at a hotel in Berlin ... time lost at Hamburg ... the journey from Hamburg to Rotterdam, Harwich and London ... the hotel on arriving, so as to be able to dress before going home: it left her just fifty shillings to play the lady with and buy presents for Pa and Ma. And Jimmy ... Jimmy, who was in London also, due to open at the Hippodrome! And she had sworn that she would give him back that money at once! To quiet her conscience, Lily, under her blankets, took the "counter-oath" of the stage, with her left hand behind her back, the fingers closed over the thumb, that she would repay him the money, most certainly, as soon as she began to earn any.

"Lily! Can I come in, Lily?"

It was Ma, bringing her breakfast and a paper, The Era. Lily gave a quick glance round the room: her skirt was hanging on the peg; the bodice lay, without a crease, over the back of a chair, the hat on top of it, the linen neatly folded: good! She did not look a scarecrow, at any rate! And, sitting up against the pillows, with a napkin on her knees, Lily breakfasted daintily, with her finger-tips:

"Pa, Where's Pa?" asked Lily. "Tell him to come up."

"Your Pa has gone out with the apprentices," said Ma. "He wouldn't wake you, you looked so tired last night. Here, Lily, some more coffee? Another slice of bread and butter?" continued Ma, spreading it for her.

"'K you!"

Lily accepted this as her due, like a lady accustomed to the manners of good society, to having her breakfast brought to her in bed by the maid.

"Oh, Ma," said Lily, as she sugared her coffee, "they do understand things on the continent! They know how to appreciate artistes there. I've had such successes!"

"And you were angry with us for teaching you your profession," said Ma. "You see now that it was for your good."

"But it depends on how it's done," said Lily. "If I had always been treated like this, I should never have left you."

"Well, you don't bear your Pa and me a grudge, I suppose," said Ma, "or you wouldn't have come back. We knew you'd come back. This has always been your address; your Pa never took your name out of The Era."

"You didn't treat me fair," said Lily, "but I've forgotten most of it. Oh, don't let's talk about it any more! Let's talk of something else; let's talk of you."

Lily knew all about their struggles, their successes; had heard of it on the stage, in the cafes. But here, in her room, as described by Ma, she put her finger on it, so to speak, and realized more fully what a blank her flight had made, what a catastrophe it had been for them.

And Ma gave details, tried to interest Lily in the fate of the troupe; told her that, for months, the troupe had been refused everywhere, because she wasn't in it, and her Pa had to change apprentices.

"I was the troupe!" said Lily.

"Oh, the trouble your Pa took running after his own fat freaks! I thought he would get heart-disease! And months of it, without earning a thing. Oh, if your Pa hadn't had some money ...!"

"But he had plenty!" said Lily.

"Oh, not much, not so much as you think!" Ma hastened to say, thinking she saw a spiteful allusion in Lily's remark.

"Yes, all right, I know," said Lily. "Never mind about that. It's my turn to make money now, for myself."

"Still that independent spirit! We haven't got her yet!" thought Ma.

And she went on talking of the troupe, of the cousin who played the star.

"Pooh!" said Lily. "A nice sort of star!"

"It's not every one who can star in Berlin by herself, like you," said Ma. "Do you know, Lily, you ought to stay with us: we should get on so well together. You would manage the troupe; and, one day—who knows?—you might make a nice marriage."

"But I am married, Ma! I didn't live with him! Do you mean to say you think ...? Not I!"

"I know you're married, but you can get a divorce. Jimmy used to make love to you; now there's a man who ..."

"And you used to say he was a drunkard, Ma!"

"Never!" said Ma, rising to leave.

Lily was flattered, at heart, to be received like that. She also felt proud that her Pa had not been ashamed of her and that he had kept her name in The Era. Well, they treated her as a lady, saw her value, gave her her due. And she lay for a while enjoying her triumph, while she turned the pages of The Era in an absent-minded way: Miss This, Miss That, Cape Town, Calcutta ... actors, singers ...

"Those aren't artistes, any of them!"

Programs, plays, songs: "Why I Love Women!"

"I know, you footy rotter!"

"Is Marriage a Failure?"

"I should think so!" thought Lily.

And articles, biographies ...

"Pack of lies!" thought Lily.

And pages of "Wanted ... Wanted ..."

Lily ran her eye down the columns: artistes' boarding-houses, costumiers, scene-painters, dancing-schools, every town, every theater. Hullo!—she had turned the page—Tom, the dancer—Hullo! At Milan!

"Bravo, Tom!"

Jimmy at the Hippodrome next week; private address, Whitcomb Mansions.

"Pooh, he's well off! What's fifty pounds to him?"

Hullo! Miss Lily—Berlin—Permanent address, Rathbone Place, London, W.

"Well done, Pa! Serve him right, the tramp cyclist!" said Lily, throwing down the paper and jumping out of bed.

Quite a business, her toilet. She was two hours titivating herself. She wanted Pa and Ma to be proud of her, of her successes on the continent. And, when the apprentices came in from practice, you should have seen her walk into the dining-room. A little air of simplicity, her forehead put out for her delighted Pa to kiss, hands all round—"Hullo, girls! Hullo, Daisy!" And she sat down like a lady accustomed to smart restaurants, who does not despise dinner at home, however, with a boiled leg of mutton to recruit her inside after those champagne suppers, those truffled pheasants, that damned continental cooking! She accepted everything, and thought it all very nice, simple life, simple joys, the only ones!

She set a good example to the new apprentices, who eyed her stealthily, instead of eating, for Miss Lily's presence turned their heads entirely. My! A star like that, a real one! Lily Clifton, the New Zealander on Wheels! And dressed ... dressed like a lady in the front boxes! Cousin Daisy was green with jealousy. Lily talked of her travels, her successes and the crossing, gee! Waves "miles high," the boat standing on end! Glass Eye Maud devoured her with her one eye, screwed up her fat red cheeks in a fixed and motionless laugh, scared before Lily, who came from over the sea, from countries where savages live. Glass-Eye, in her perturbation, served Lily first. Pa made no objection, asked Lily's permission to light his pipe: was she sure she didn't mind smoke? Lord, you never knew, with those ladies! He swelled with pride. If it had been Christmas-time, he would have ordered a pudding, my, a real wedding-cake three feet across! His ideas of grandeur returned, his triumphal tour round the world, the definite extermination of the fat freaks ... if Lily remained with him ...

After dinner, the apprentices retired, to finish sewing some bloomers. Lily approved:

"Bloomers? Very nice ... for a troupe!"

Presently, in the afternoon, the three of them went for a walk: Pa freshly shaven; Ma decked out in her jewelry: Lily did not wear any, "only in the evening when she went into society." Tottenham Court Road, the Palace, the Hippodrome.... Pa would have liked to write up on his hat:

"Lily has come back!"

He looked to right and left, had the satisfaction of distributing nods and bows to some artistes, with Lily on his arm, as though to say:

"You see it was wrong, all that people were saying, about those smackings! And the proof is, here she is,—on my arm, damn it!"

As for Lily, she thought only of showing herself:

"If Trampy could see me now!" she reflected. "And Jimmy, if he could see me, in my fine dress, while it's still new!"

Regent Street reminded Lily of Pa's generosity. She would not be behindhand. Pa had to accept a red tie, a pair of gloves, a match-box, as a present; Ma, an embroidered handkerchief, a lucky charm. Lily had the satisfaction of paying with gold and receiving change.

She was tired, in the evening, put on a languid air: gee, her mother would have shaken her for less in the old days! Lily put it on still more, to show them all that times were changed. But she did the troupe the honor of going to see their performance at the Castle. It was a great success for her.

"Made a bit, eh?" asked the manager, seeing her fine dress. "Coming back for good, to star with the New Zealanders?"

"I don't know; I shall see."

Lily was quite ready to come back, in her own mind, but she wanted to return in triumph. It all depended on the price offered: to think that she had worked for them at ten shillings a week, when she was worth quite two pounds a night! She would see; she would make her own conditions: for instance, herself in tights, the others in bloomers ... a special tune for her entrance ... no star beside herself!

Lily watched the New Zealanders' performance with the air of an expert:

"Not so bad; quite good ..."

And she had various ideas: herself as a fine lady, undressing on the stage. Or rather, no, as a statue, on a pedestal in a park ... with Cousin Daisy at her feet, throwing flowers to her. Then she would come to life, as though waking from sleep, and step down prettily to a special tune. Hullo, what's this? A bike! And then, gee, a blast of the trombone and she would show them what a star was, a real one! Yes ... she would see ... if Pa and Ma insisted ... perhaps ...

But her real triumph was next day, at practice. Her Pa, excited by her presence, ran and ran, notwithstanding his palpitations of the heart. It was no use his trying to restrain himself: his enthusiasm mastered him as soon as he saw them all in the saddle, his little Woolly-legs!

And no more Tom: he was all by himself now; and, when he sat down to take breath, he still ordered his little Woolly-legs about, shouted his cutting remarks at them.

Lily raised her head proudly. She seemed to take the apprentices to witness. She had gone through that, much worse than that, for years! She was a gentle little lady, all the same. Besides, she was all for gentleness:

"Leave her to me, Pa; you're making poor Cousin Daisy quite nervous. She doesn't know; I'll show her!"

And, under her great waving feather, Lily, without even taking off her gloves:

"There, put your foot there ... like that ... and like that ... firmly. No, not like that!"

And, suddenly, stimulated with professional zeal:

"Wait, I'll show you how it's done!"

And, in an instant, to show them all how you're got up when you're a star and when you come back from the continent, Lily took off her bodice, pinned up her skirt amid the rustling of the silk and, bare-armed, in a lace-trimmed chemisette:

"Now then, I'll show you!"

And Lily, with all her little muscles alive, took a bike, jumped on it as she would on a stool and then—yoop!—the bike on its back-wheel, spinning round like a top.

"Twirls are as easy as anything: you only have to know how to do them. Come on! Have a try!"

And the other, encouraged by a friendly slap, tried in her turn and—yoop!—succeeded ... very nearly.

Pa was enraptured at the mere sight of Lily's little curled nostrils and her earnest look:

"What a professor she would make!" he thought. "If ever she takes the belt, she'll be simply grand. I can just fold my arms!"

But he made her dress very quickly. That exhibition of dainty underwear, which flattered his pride as a father, would have driven girls used to sewing their own calico shifts quite crazy: there would have been no holding them; and, besides, artistes might come in at any moment. It would not do for Lily to be seen half-dressed like that; and she realized this herself, like a sensible little lady, who hates scandal.

"Stay with us, Lily," said her Pa, at home, after dinner, when the apprentices had gone out. "Stay with us."

"It's your duty," said Ma.

"If you stay," continued Pa, "I'll make you a present of a brand-new banjo!"

"Thank you, no more banjo for me," said Lily, laughing. "I've had my share."

"All right, no more banjo," agreed Pa, "provided you stay with us: that's all I ask. I shall be afraid of nobody then; I'll show them what an artiste is!"

And, warming to his subject, Pa built up his plans: the great English tours; and Eastern and Western America, Australia, South Africa:

"Eh, Lily? Wouldn't you like to see it all again? Or else, for once, I'll get up a troupe and take it round the world myself, with you in it!"

"But, Pa," said Lily, very coldly, "I have business arrangements of my own, more engagements than I want."

"It's a business arrangement I'm proposing to you," said Pa.

"And shall I come on in tights?"

"In tights, if you like."

"And no other star but me!" continued Lily, explaining her idea: undressing on the stage, or else the statue, her own scenery ...

"Capital idea!" cried Pa.

"And then there's the money side of the question," said Lily. "I make a lot of money now. I want to work for myself."

"And what you make with us, won't it be yours, one day?" suggested Ma.

"Stay with us," said Pa, "and Trampy will burst with spite and you'll be much happier here, with your Pa and Ma, instead of with that good-for-nothing!"

"Or instead of remaining alone, which is even worse," Ma insisted. "You want us still, Lily ..."

"And you me! Let us talk business," interrupted Lily, who would have liked a pencil and paper, to make her calculations with.

Ma, in her heart of hearts, did not think it at all nice of a daughter to consider only her own interests; but Pa hurried up, thought Lily was quite right ... although he was greatly embarrassed in reality and asked himself how much he could well offer her, so as to make a profit for himself.

Fortunately, he was relieved of his predicament by Glass-Eye, who came in with a telegram for Miss Lily.

"Give it here!" said Lily, who noticed, as she opened the envelope, that a chair had creaked and that the palm of her left hand was itching: a sign of money. "I'll bet it's about an engagement. I have offers from every side; you have no idea ... Well, I never!" she said. "A telegram from Jimmy, at the Horse Shoe! I thought he was at Whitcomb Mansions. What can he want with me? He asks me to call on him! Funny way of treating a lady. Why can't he come himself?"

But Pa and Ma thought differently: Jimmy was "somebody," a man to be considered, right at the top of the profession; she'd have done better to marry him and not her Trampy Wheel-Pad!...

"You must go," insisted Ma. "Don't you like going alone? Shall I come with you?"

"Yes, that's different," said Lily, who had a certain pride and who felt sure that Jimmy would never mention that thousand marks before a witness.

Her heart beat a little, as she went up the staircase of the Horse Shoe to the third floor, on the left, door 32. At first, she was surprised that he should be there, having read in The Era ... but he might have moved. On the whole, she was not sorry to show herself to Jimmy in her pretty frock, he having seen her last in her room in Berlin, looking ill, unkempt and frightfully ugly. She was not sorry, either, that Ma was with her:

"He's in love, I suppose," said Lily. "Everybody makes love to me: why do they, Ma? I'm not a bit pretty, off the stage."

And she took a mischievous pleasure in enlarging upon her successes and her flirtations, there, on the staircase of the Horse Shoe, with Ma beside her, and no smackings, gee, nor any fear of smackings in the future! What a change since her marriage!

"Yes," Lily went on, as she read the numbers on the doors—29—"Ma, you ought to see the flowers I get, the chocolates, the sweets"—31—"but all that does not prevent a lady from keeping straight"—32—

Then she gave a stifled cry, her voice stuck in her throat: Trampy, Trampy himself stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, a cigar in his mouth, his hat cocked over one ear; and he looked at her with a bantering air:

"Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Lily. You hoped to find some one else, eh?"

Ma, utterly flabbergasted, had dropped on to a bench in the passage, in the shadow. Trampy did not even see her. Lily was crimson with shame at being caught tripping by Trampy: she could not deny it. She wanted to run away, but, stupefied with surprise, remained where she stood, with dilated pupils, open-mouthed.

"You can look at me till to-morrow morning and it won't help you," said Trampy quietly, with the air of a man who has prepared his speech. "I've got you this time! I sent the telegram; I knew you'd come, wherever he thought fit to meet you; you'd have come for less than Jimmy; you'd have come for the impersonator or any one else, never mind whom; any one in the rotten lot, any gentleman in the front boxes, eh? It's 'Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad!' with you! But I thought Jimmy would do best, Jimmy your lover, whom you followed to London. Now my luck has brought me here, too ... for my work ... not like you! And, by the way, Miss Lily, have you brought me that thousand marks which you got from Jimmy and which I was going to give back to him, when you stole it out of my pocket? Or did you spend it on the way here? You hadn't a rag to your back, when you left me, and I find you dressed up like a Tottie. My compliments, Miss Lily."

"O God, strike him dead!" prayed Lily. "Strike him, kill him, kill him!"

Lily felt like fainting. She could not breathe, her ribs seemed to be crushing her lungs. At last she drew a long, slow breath:

"Well," she stammered, overcome with shame, "well, we can be divorced ... if you like."

"I'll see," said Trampy, hardening his voice and throwing away his cigar. "Go back to your Jimmy in the meantime. You may be sure I have no use for a traitress like you, an idler who refuses to work, a woman who lets every man make love to her!" And, suddenly, pointing to the stairs, "You can be sure that I've no further use for you! Get out of this, damn you! And you're not going, mind you: I'm kicking you out!"

And therewith Trampy went back into his room and slammed the door in her face.

Mrs. Clifton and Lily remained glued where they were. At last, Ma, trembling all over, rose from the bench and led away her daughter, who shook her fist at the door, crying:

"Liar!"

"Why didn't you speak just now, my poor Lily?" said Ma. "You ought to have answered back! So it's true, all that? A nice thing! You, who pretended...."

"Oh, let go, you're crushing my sleeve!" retorted Lily angrily, pulling her arm away from the hand that clasped it.

She went down the stairs, followed by Ma, without knowing what she was doing. She would have liked to find a train on the pavement, a motor, to jump into it, to make off and never see anybody again, after the humiliation which she had undergone before Ma.

She flung herself into the first cab that came along, yelled a direction to the driver: Hyde Park, anywhere! Ma found herself by Lily's side, without being asked to step in, and she repeated:

"Lily, you ought to have ... Why did you let him treat you like that? Is it true?"

"First of all," said Lily, suddenly turning and facing her Ma; "first of all, it's your fault ... yours ... all that's happened, damn it! If you had been less hard on me, I shouldn't have gone off with that footy rotter!"

"I've often been sorry since," said Ma. "I've been sorry for it. Calm yourself, Lily. And then ... were we so very wrong? Look how your husband has just treated you before me, before your mother!"

"He's a liar! I swear it!"

"And Jimmy's thousand marks? What was that money for? Why didn't you give it back?"

"It's a lie! It's a lie!"

"You, who pretended you were making such a lot of money!" continued Ma. "There's not a word of truth in what you said. You haven't a penny. I can see it. Oh, you're the same as ever, my poor Lily—extravagant habits, dresses—and here you are, penniless, left to yourself with your expensive tastes. You'll die in poverty one day, without a Pa or Ma. Come back to us, Lily."

"To make nothing? No, thank you!"

"Who says so?"

"Oh, I know! Ten shillings a week, eh? Family life, as that old beast of a Fuchs says!"

"Lily," said Ma severely, "don't insult decent people! Have some respect, at any rate."

But Lily had no respect left for anybody. Pas, Mas, Trampies, Nunkies, one and all, were so many slave-drivers!

"And yet it's quite true, I'm penniless," thought Lily to herself. "I, who have earned a fortune for you!" she grumbled under her breath, stifling a sob.

"You're mad, my poor Lily! All that we have will be yours some day. You never think of the future; you spend your last penny."

"I earn and I spend!"

"And suppose you fell ill, my poor Lily?"

"Hospitals aren't made for dogs! Besides, I have friends. And then, at least, I shall have had some fun for my money, while you, if you died to-morrow, Pa would marry another woman, who would spend all your savings, all the money I have earned for you."

"Lily," cried Mrs. Clifton, "you're insulting your father!"

"I'm telling you things as they are; and I won't come back to you, because I can make more elsewhere! Every one for himself!"

"But you don't make a penny!" said Ma, gradually getting angry. "You heard Trampy, just now. He called you an idler. Your Pa, at least, used to make you work. You're trying to bluff us with those stories of your successes. I dare say you'll be glad, one day, of a crust of bread with us."

"Ma!"

"Your contracts," said Ma, "you're always talking of your contracts. I should like to see them and your programs too."

"Certainly," said Lily. "I'll show them to you: Munich, Berlin, Hamburg. I've had successes everywhere, engagements everywhere! I make more by myself than all Pa's troupe put together!"

"Yes, but how do you get your engagements?" said Ma, pale with anger, seeing that Lily was escaping them and, this time, for good. "Tell me how you get them?"

"Why, through my talent, I suppose."

"Your talent! Pooh! You've none left! You get them through your friends: through your Jimmy, your gentlemen friends...."

"That's a lie!"

"You get them ... by looking pretty and getting round the men ... you ... you ... you...."

"Mother!"

Lily drew back her shoulder, her arm stiff, ready to strike; but a sense of respect withheld her.

"Stop!" she cried to the cabman, in a hoarse voice.

And, without even waiting for the cab to pull up beside the curb, Lily jumped out in the roadway, into the mud.

"Mother," she said to Mrs. Clifton, "mother, I shall never forget this!"

And, mechanically, in her haste to get away, she handed the man what money she had left, made a sign to him to go on and, without saying good-by, Lily saw the cab drive off. It was evening, in a quiet street: where was she? Lily did not know; her head was in a whirl. She recognized Old Compton Street: had they gone no farther? It seemed to her that she had been riding for an hour ... but no, barely a few minutes....

Alone in London, without money, in the mud, in the dark, oh! she wished she could be swallowed up in the sewer. She felt like killing herself.

"If I walk toward the Thames," she muttered, "I am done for!"

And she took a street on the left, leading in the direction of the embankment. The movement restored her to her self-consciousness.

An idea came to her, a distant hope, a glimmer, very faint at first, which suddenly grew in dimensions within her and lit her up in every particle. Jimmy! He appeared to her, all at once, like a giant eight feet high, as on his posters. Ah, people seemed to associate her life with his, to presume all sorts of things ... though he had never even kissed her! Yes, he had ... on the stage ... in Berlin, but that was before everybody! And everything drove her toward him, she always found herself on his path: Jimmy was everywhere, always. And Jimmy was powerful and he was good-looking and he loved her! He loved her! To keep straight was no use. Why, all of them, all of them, including her husband, that footy rotter, who was jealous of Jimmy without reason: she'd give him cause for jealousy soon, if it killed him with rage, him and all the rotten lot. And she'd do it that very moment! At two minutes' walk from where she stood, in Whitcomb Mansions! She was not one of those women whom you can drive to despair with impunity: she had her vengeance ready....

* * * * *

Jimmy was alone in his room; his table was covered with books and papers. He was still at his great plan.

Jimmy sat plunged in work, without the least thought of what was happening near him: in fact, he did not even know that Lily was in London. His installation of "Bridging the Abyss" at the Hippodrome had taken him the whole day. There was a scenic effect to contrive with the manager: a "hydrodrama" ... bridging the abyss over a torrent ... with a waterfall behind ... and the whole thing set and framed in a pantomine, which was ready for production, because Jimmy had been expected for a month; in short, it would go of itself.

And under the peaceful light he resumed his compasses, or else flung himself back in his chair, lit a cigarette, followed the smoke with his eyes....

Poor Lily, what was she doing, over there, in Berlin, thought Jimmy. She deserved something better than Trampy, that adorable Lily, to whom he, Jimmy, would gladly have devoted his life ... and whom he felt as it were swelling up inside him ... in his heart ... in his brain ... in spite of himself! That poor Lily! To think that he could do nothing for her, that he almost regretted having done her a service, after the short scene which he had had the day after with Trampy, blinded with jealousy, because he, Jimmy, had visited Lily during his absence; the reproaches which that simple action had earned for him:

"Look here, you righter of wrongs, you who preach to others and go making love to their wives!"

To have put himself in a position that he could be spoken to like that, in a position to have Lily suspected! What a shame! Oh, the worries it would cause her! Yes, he had been imprudent, perhaps: it was all his fault; another man's wife....



A tap at the door. It was opened behind him, before he had time to say, "Come in," and Lily walked up to Jimmy, who sat dumb with surprise: a strange Lily, feverish, distraught with passion. At any other time, she would have felt constrained, because of the thousand marks, or proud to show off her dress. Perhaps also she had prepared things to say. But all that was forgotten, gone, blown away, like a straw in the storm, for nothing came from her but this, in an anxious voice:

"Tell me, Jimmy, is it true that you love me?"

"Why," said Jimmy, perceiving Lily's agitation, without guessing the reason: oh, but for Lily to do a thing like that! How she would regret it later; it was terrible this time really. He saw all that at a glance; a great pity invaded him; and yet he was a man of flesh and blood and felt stirred to the marrow. "Why," he began, in a voice which he strove to make friendly, no more, "why, Lily, who told you that? Why really ... I...."

"Jimmy," she cried, fixing her eyes, like two flaming swords upon him, "answer me! Do you love me or not?"

Jimmy, turning as pale as a corpse, looked at her without flinching and shook his head in sign of no.

"Oh, you mean cur!" roared Lily.

And she struck him on the face with her clenched fist.

* * * * *

Then she went out without a word, ran down the stairs, out into the blaze of Leicester Square, made for the dark streets and plunged into the night....



INTERMEZZO

I

The artistes' special left Euston at noon that Sunday. The Three Graces were the first to arrive; then the waiting-rooms, until lately deserted, began to fill with silent groups of five or six persons at a time, who had, no doubt, arranged the night before, at the theater, to travel together and avail themselves of the reduction allowed to members of the M. H. A. R. A.: a reduction of at least a third, provided there were five in the party. They now swarmed into the station from every side: pale faces, under huge feathers; wrists hooped round with bangles; breasts bristling with gollywogs and lucky charms. There were little girls with bows over their ears, dressed in plush and velvet and following their Pas and Mas. There were troupes of carpet acrobats, with low foreheads, broad shoulders and bow legs; and profs, bosses and managers, recognizable by the richness of their watch-chains, looked after the luggage. Theater-vans discharged immense basket trunks, marked with letters a foot high—"Brothers This ... Sisters That ... So-and-so Trio ... Miss Such-and-such"—and bearing on the handles, on the yellow labels of the M. H. A. R. A., addresses of Empires and Palaces and of Grand Opera-Houses and Grand Theaters, too, for there were not only "artistes," but singers, actresses, "chicken-necks," "woolly-legs," who rubbed shoulders with the muscular acrobats. All of them crowded round the booking-office; they handed in professional cards, helped one another, among pros; those who were traveling alone borrowed tickets to enable them to get their over-weight luggage labeled: complicated pieces of apparatus, nickel-plated rods wrapped up in sacking, equilibrists' perches; the coaches, which were carried by assault, were encumbered with hand-luggage, bags, parcels, picture-frames containing photographs for the doors of the theaters, heaped up in the racks, under the seats, in the corridor; and there was a constant fire of "Hullo, girls! Hullo, boys!"

The Three Graces, standing before the carriage-door, now that their things were settled, watched this tumult sadly, especially Thea. What was it? Nunkie's absence? No, but poor Lily had been kicked out by her husband, so they heard, and turned out by her mother as well: was it possible? Lily was dead or vanished, they didn't know which; they were told about it at the theater; a stagehand had met her near St. Martin's Lane, in a small street, with her hair undone and her hat on the back of her head, crying, biting her handkerchief, drunk, apparently, and running in the direction of the Thames. And, since then, they had had no news of her.

"Poor Lily, what can she have done, what can have happened?" sighed Thea. "Poor Lily, she was always so nice!"

Thea could have cried for sadness.

The start caused a diversion. The collector punched the tickets:

"Blackpool? Glasgow?"

The Three Graces stepped in, the engine whistled. But a porter rushed past, pushing before him, with a rumbling like thunder, a huge trunk on a barrow. Thea turned her head and a name in scarlet letters caught her eyes: "Miss Lily!" And, running after the trunk, magnificently bedecked, in a hat all feathers and gold tassels, who? What? Lily! Lily herself, red and out of breath, leading her bike with one hand, carrying an umbrella in the other, and Glass-Eye, her arms stretched wide with parcels, following in her train! Just time to throw her bike to the porter in the luggage-van and quick, quick, Lily came scudding back, hustled along by the train-master! She would have missed the start, were it not for Thea, who opened the door and, with her arms of steel, gripped her as she passed:

"Hullo, Lily! That's a good girl! Quick!"

Lily leaped into the carriage with a bound. Glass-Eye, entangled in her parcels, had, amid general laughter, to be dragged by main force, through the narrow doorway, like a piece of luggage. Oof, just in time ... Off they were!

In the railway-carriage was nothing but gaiety and handshaking and ingenuous questions:

"Traveling by yourself? Where's Trampy? And your Pa and Ma? So you're not dead, eh?"

"Certainly not," said Lily. "If they had come to annoy me at the station, I'd have shown them if I was alive or dead! I was ready for them!"

And she brandished her umbrella.

Then she had to make herself comfortable, to find room for all her belongings as best she could. Lily pushed Glass-Eye about, like a fine lady used to being waited on:

"Here, take my hat, Glass-Eye; hang it up. Take my wrist-bag. Wait, give me my handkerchief first!"

To look at Lily, all fresh and rosy, one would never have suspected the trials she had passed through, but a few days ago. Still quite flustered with that hurried departure, she smiled as she watched the Three Graces, who, on their side, were carefully folding up their cloaks. And the train rushed on, rushed on through deep cuttings, dashed through deserted stations ... and then, suddenly, entered a tunnel. Lily, but for the noise of the wheels, would have seen herself as she had been that night. Oh, she would never forget it! It clutched at her heart. She clenched her fists with anger. Turned out by Trampy! Insulted by her Ma! Flouted by Jimmy, that mean cur! Oh, when she left his place, a few days ago, she felt like a madwoman! Her first idea was to disappear, to take a header into the black water! But, ugh, the mud, the cold! And then the hospital, with those people who cut you up! She must also show Pa and Ma whether it was through her gentlemen friends that she meant to earn more by herself alone than they and all their rotten troupe put together. Perhaps Pa and Ma would come to her, one day, to beg their bread! But Ma must first ask Lily's pardon on her knees. On her knees, damn it! And, in despair, inwardly raging, her chest aching with grief and spite, Lily, penniless, but brave for all that and ready for the fray, returned to her hotel, where, to her great surprise, she found some one waiting for her, with a parcel in her hand.

Lily recognized Glass-Eye.

It was, indeed, poor Glass-Eye. When she heard what had happened and that Lily would starve in London and a jolly good thing too, that she could sleep in Leicester Square for all they cared: when she heard this behind the door, Glass-Eye almost fainted. Without a word to a soul, she had packed up her parcel and gone to join Lily; and Lily, in her misery, cried for joy when she saw the decent girl, who offered her her savings, twelve shillings in all, saying:

"Take me with you, Miss Lily; I'll wait on you for nothing. Take me, take me!"

Oh, not to feel alone, to have some one beside you who loves you: that had consoled Lily....

The next day, accompanied by Glass-Eye, she called on the agents, in the Leicester Square quarter, at the risk of meeting Pa, or Trampy, or Jimmy; but who cared? With her umbrella in her hand, she feared nobody and did not give a fig for any of them.

Nothing for her at Harrasford's, where the Warwicks were starring. Very well, she'd come back again some other time! And straight on to Bill and Boom's in Whitcomb Mansions, below Jimmy. As she climbed the stairs, Lily screwed up her eyes, like a short-sighted person, for fear of meeting Jimmy, prepared a haughty attitude; but she saw no one. She was not kept waiting, was shown in at once to Boom's office. Lily Clifton? the New Zealander on Wheels? Straight away a contract! And Lily left with twenty music-halls in her pocket! Liverpool, Birmingham, Sheffield and so on: a week in each town, beginning on Monday next. And that was how she got engagements through her gentlemen friends!

The next day, she borrowed some money on her contracts from the Brixton financier: "loans from five pounds upward, in the strictest confidence." Then, proposed and seconded by two artistes, she joined the Variety Artistes' Federation and, in return for ten shillings, received the red card of membership. She paid another ten shillings and the same for Glass-Eye, her maid, to the M. H. A. R. A. and obtained the right, for one year, to travel at reduced fares, including an insurance against accidents: five hundred pounds to her heirs in case of death—her heirs!—and two hundred and fifty pounds if she lost a hand or foot in a railway accident; and one hundred and fifty for a serious injury. Then she bought a big gollywog, for her dressing-room, and a little lucky charm for her watch-chain—a closed black hand, with the thumb between the fingers, as a preservative against falls—and with that and her bike she would have set out for India and Australia as calmly as she might have taken the omnibus to Earl's Court.

Oh yes, she had done a deal in those few days and, above all, she had got out of her difficulties, thanks, to a certain extent, to Glass-Eye, who had comforted her. And besides, hang it, that was all over now! The worries were forgotten, and, as the train emerged from the tunnel, Lily, with her arm round Glass-Eye's waist, was patting that decent girl and Glass-Eye lifted her one good eye to Lily, while the other, the glass one, gazing fixedly at the door, reflected the thinly scattered houses and the beginning of the country.

Lily, when she had recovered a little from her mad rush, lay down at full length among her bags, parcels and bandboxes. She laughed with the Three Graces; and there was no one there to interfere with them; there they were, by themselves, among themselves, alone in the compartment, a regular, rollicking school-girls' picnic. Lily made them scream by telling them about her life since they had last seen her. She felt a need for a reaction of gaiety, after her sadness of the days just past. The Graces fixed their round eyes upon her, upon that Lily who was so thoroughly up in all sorts of things which they knew only by hearsay: men, love. A life fit to kill a horse; and a very nice girl, for all that: a kind of forbidden fruit, pink and fair-haired, soft to the touch; and no jealousy between them, friendship rather, a rare thing, in the "Profession"....

Lily grew excited in talking, told of her successes, the receptions, the teas she used to give in her drawing-room, in Berlin, when she was ill. Jossers, according to her, would have paid any price to have been there! It would form a subject of conversation over there for many a long day to come. And then her journeys, her impressions of the continent—"Jam with your meat, my dear!"—and such clean dressing-rooms in Germany; very severe managers, though: gee, harder than Pas. But very good to her, all the same. The Battenberg at Leipzig: nothing but leading turns; and she had topped the bill at Leipzig! And to see all those people eating, during the show, when you were hungry yourself, had a very funny effect upon you. By the way, she didn't like that system of being lodged and boarded by the management; it was all very well for those people; but none of that for her: give her a nice flat in town or a smart hotel! Once she was started, Lily never stopped, called Glass-Eye to witness, went on telling of her life in Berlin; how Jimmy had fallen in love with her when he saw her on the stage, and he had the cheek to want her to run away with him; but who got a box on the ear that day, eh? She perhaps: yes, rather, over the left! And Jimmy and Trampy had fought for her! So had all the pros, worse than dogs in September!

"What a rotten lot!" concluded Lily.

"My, how you've changed!" said Thea. "You used to be so fond of men."

"I give it them where they deserve," said Lily, slapping her firm, round hips.

And they laughed noisily at Lily's anger when, with her shoulder drawn back and her arm ready to strike, she spoke of breaking the jaws of those two scoundrels.

"Go it! Hit me!" said Thea, putting forward her deltoid muscle. "Hit away! You'll only smash your wrist!"

And then those Spartans calmed down, asked one another for news of absent friends, talked about different people they had known, all over the place, on the stage: their conversation always came round to the profession. Lily, with greater refinement, sometimes tried to discuss dress: tulle ruches were to be worn this year, she heard; feather boas. The Graces knew nothing about that, stuck to their "Did you ever know...? Do you remember...?" And every part of the world was mixed up in their talk: India, Tasmania, Mexico, South Wales, New South Wales, York, New York, Hampshire, New Hampshire.

"Did you know Ave Maria?" asked Lily.

"No."

But they mentioned other friends, like school-girls living in the same quarter; only, for them, the school, the quarter was San Francisco, Chicago, Berlin, and the schoolmates were the girl in a knot, who had sold her skeleton in advance to the Medical College: Marjutti, the double-knotted girl, to whom the South Kensington Museum offered five hundred pounds for a cast of her figure; the Pawnees, who had just won a treble beauty prize; and the Laurence girl, whose cruelly daring performance was forbidden by the Manchester police; and heaps of others whom they had known and who, at that moment, were asleep at the antipodes, right under your feet, or waking up in the Far West, or going to bed in the Far East, or pitching on the ocean, or rolling in express trains toward the five corners of the earth. And their own traveling adventures, the Graces' and Lily's: broken railway-bridges! ships on fire at sea! towns blazing up in the night! ropes breaking, falls head-first, my! One would have thought that these girls of seventeen to twenty were South Sea pirates, talking of hangings and tortures, or, rather, children playing at frightening one another. Lily, for instance, in India: two eyes glaring at her in the dark, gee! And, in New York, a fall into a mirror; all over blood; half dead. She grew excited, in her desire to outdo Laurence and Crack-o'-Whip: the steel-buckled belt, the kicks in the ribs! Stories of brutal treatment picked up on every side—from the Gilson girl, from Ave Maria, from all the boys and all the girls and all the monkeys who had been through the mill—she made every one of them her own, served them up hot and hot to the astounded Graces, talked of whole days spent in practising on rough, uneven boards—"And given no food, was I, Glass-Eye?"—so much so that she would sometimes get up in the night and go and pick up the crusts under the table, gee! Lily reveled in the pitying expressions of the Three Graces and her heart swelled with pride when Thea, greatly touched, remarked that, in such cases, it would have been better not to be born.

"You're quite right," said Lily, with a drooping air; but she burst into a peal of fresh, young laughter when she saw Glass-Eye overcome with emotion. "What's that?" asked Lily, giving her a thump in the ribs. "Crying? You silly cuckoo!"

If it hadn't been for her Ma's insults and Jimmy's and Trampy's—when it all came back to her, it was like a needle stuck in her heart!—Lily would have been in the seventh heaven! No more Pa, no more Ma, no more anybody; no boss, no prof, no husband, nothing, all alone ... with her maid! Certainly, there would be the worry of business, looking for her "digs," seeing the agents, writing letters and so on; but she would know how to put herself forward, how to make the most of her work; and she smiled as she reflected how little all those worries meant, compared with her past life: and she would be free, free, free at last. She was going to earn money, to enjoy life.

And the train rushed on, rushed on through the fields. Glass-Eye, with her nose glued to the window, was astonished to find everything so large outside of London: red villages decked the green country-side; and then came empty railway stations. Sometimes the train slowed down:—a large silent town lay spread in the valley, white smoke rose from the endless roofs; homes, more homes; the air of rest, the empty streets and the indistinct chimes of the church-bells proclaimed to the pale heavens the majesty of prayer. Lily listened with a dreamy air; it all reminded her of things:

"It's like the American engines," she said to the Three Graces, "that used to ring their bells when they passed through Syracuse."

But the train rushed on, rushed on.... And they again began to talk shop, as always: with, here and there, an excursion into the cost of food. The Graces, just then, were unpacking their lunch; and Lily fetched her traveling provisions from her bag in the corridor. There was a sound of clattering plates from end to end of the train, in a mist of tobacco-smoke. Lily rejoined the party very quickly, to avoid coming in contact with the pros, and, waited on by Glass-Eye, attacked her meal and broke her bread so heartily that the crusts flew to the ceiling. They drank out of the same cup, took their meat in their hands, Lily saying that fingers were made before forks. They chattered noisily, with the time-honored jokes about apples and bananas. They made Glass-Eye talk a lot of nonsense. Lily, flinging back her head, laughed full-throated, held her sides.

"My!" said the Graces. "What a pity that we are separating! It would have been so nice to travel together; one's never bored with you. What a tomboy!"

"'K you!" said Lily, greatly flattered, with a stage curtsey.

Unfortunately, they would have to part at Warrington. The Graces were going on to Glasgow, Lily was changing for Liverpool; a few moments more and it was good-by, until chance....

At Lily's request, the Graces gave her a few last words of advice, explained the system of the pass-book of the Artistes' Federation: the sixpenny stamp to be stuck in the little square every week; the extra stamp at each death of a member, for the benefit of the heirs. They talked to her of the Friday meetings at Manchester, at which every artiste can speak and see himself printed afterward in the London Performer.

"Good!" thought Lily. "I may have things to say. There will be news for somebody!"

The Graces had a "three years' book," the professional agenda, with nothing but Mondays marked on it for the weekly engagement: 8 January, 15 January and so on.

"Yes, I know," said Lily. "Mine's full for months ahead!"

They showed her, on theirs, the last pages containing portrait advertisements of famous artistes: the Pawnees, Marjutti, Laurence.

"Oh, if I could get there one day!" thought Lily. "I'd post it to Pa; it would be the death of him!"

And then followed the thousand and one details of the wandering life: your name on the red list, the list handed in at the station; the journeys at reduced fares; the music for twelve instruments, forty executants, sent on to the theater a fortnight in advance.

"And matinees are paid for now. And you know, Lily, in the Federation you can get a solicitor free."

"That's a good thing to know," thought Lily, "for my divorce from that rusty biker!"

Oh, how she hated pros, now! The sight of them in the corridor, looking at her with glistening eyes, made her want to put out her tongue at them! But she preferred not to see:

"I don't like to seem stuck-up with them, it's not polite," she observed.

Nevertheless, she shrugged her shoulders when one of them who, no doubt, had known her when she was "that high," blew kisses to her from the tips of his fingers, with a gesture straight at her heart, through the window.

And the train rushed on, rushed on. They were nearing Warrington. The slopes, on either side, bristled with chimneys and houses, houses, endless roofs ... a Lancashire rid of its black smoke, like an extinct and silent crater ... Warrington!

A few minutes' wait. There was a general hustle, pros stretching their legs, running to the refreshment-room for a drink, some seeking seats in the train, others saying good-by:

"Write to me, eh? Cathedral Hotel, Melbourne."

And a shake of the hand; so long; perhaps for ever. More basket trunks were being trundled down the platform. A wife was leaving her husband: six months, twelve months, without meeting; who could tell? Or else, perhaps, between two trains, as the luck of the tours would have it; and they seemed very fond of each other, too; Lily thought it very pretty. But she had other things to do than sentimentalize. She handed out her parcels to Glass-Eye and then, standing on the platform, said good-by to the Three Graces:

"Hope you'll have a good journey! Au revoir! Send me some post-cards," said Lily. "Address them to the theater, I love that! Good-by! Ta-ta!"

The train started. Lily waved her handkerchief to the Three Graces.

One more separation; one more little rent: Lily had had so many in her life. As far back as she could remember there had been heads at the carriage-window, like that; ships standing out to sea; trains rushing into the night. But, this time, she was alone, with her maid. And she drew herself up proudly, like a lady who had a sense of her responsibilities. A new life was opening before Lily, as before a girl just coming out. Poor Lily, a girl still, in her way, yes, with, for her portion, a feather in her hat, a gollywog in her trunk, a pair of supple legs and nerves of steel, unerring and exact, trained to turn round and round....



CHAPTER II

"Liverpool! Come along, Glass-Eye!" said Lily, jogging her maid in the ribs.

Glass-Eye, half asleep, clumsily gathered up her parcels, while Lily looked round for the baggage-man. On the platform was an avalanche of bags, boxes, picture-frames, as at the departure from Euston; the basket trunks were being piled up in the theater-vans. Lily pointed out her hamper and her bike to the boy from the theater, who had come to meet the "program" at the station.

"Are you the bicyclist?"

"I am," replied Lily modestly.

She gave her address: not the pros' boarding-house, but private "digs" which had been recommended to her in London, with a note of introduction. Then she walked out of the station, followed by Glass-Eye.

Lily knew Liverpool, vaguely, as she knew all the towns of the United Kingdom and those of America, too, and Australia and India and Germany and Holland and elsewhere. They were all muddled up in her memory, she had seen so many, and made as it were one great city, but for occasional salient points, as in the towns which you came to in a boat, or those in which you had a circus parade, or others still, here and there: Glasgow, where she had fallen and broken a tooth; Blackpool with its ball-rooms, its tower and a "contract!" Sheffield, with its smoking chimneys; Washington, with a dome at the end; New York, with its sky-scrapers. The towns of her early childhood, leaning against mountains, buried under trees, were more remote, more like a dream. Elephants, monkeys, harnessed buffaloes; and then Mexico and Ave Maria, London and those footy rotters!

Liverpool was Lime Street: Lily remembered a sort of round church; when you got to that, you turned to the left. She soon found the house and received from a huge, full-blown lady the friendly welcome which Lily's artless air and fair curls always insured her. No gentleman with them? All alone by themselves? A room with a big double bed, a little parlor with a bow-window; sixteen shillings a week, including the use of the kitchen. Just then, the baggage-man arrived, took the trunk up to the room and went on with the bike to the pros' boarding-house and the theater. Lily, assisted by Glass-Eye, fixed herself up for the week: her dresses on the pegs, her linen safe under lock and key in the hamper. Then she made a special parcel of things for the stage: paper flowers, ostrich feathers, white laced boots.

"There, wrap that up in my petticoat," said Lily. "And the music and the gollywog: you can bring all that to my dressing-room to-morrow morning."

Next, Lily made herself look smart, freshened up her two bows, threw her green muslin scarf over her shoulders and went down to the parlor to pick out her favorite tune—The Bluebells of Scotland—with one finger on the piano. Meanwhile, the landlady spread the cloth: bread, marmalade, watercress, two eggs. Then, according to instructions received, Glass-Eye announced to Miss Lily that tea was ready. Lily affably invited Glass-Eye to sit down to table with her; and the two ate away like friends. Lily took the opportunity to settle her expenses; for instance—and this she insisted upon—if she, Lily, took a maid, she wouldn't have her for nothing; she intended to pay her some small monthly wage.

"And a good many little perquisites besides, you understand, Glass-Eye; my old frocks, my hats."

Glass-Eye did not ask that, would have given her other eye to serve Miss Lily.

Lily was still asleep, at twelve o'clock the next morning, when Glass-Eye entered the room. She had lost her way, had walked miles, had been to the landing-stage of the music-hall....

"At what time's rehearsal?" asked Lily.

"At one o'clock, Miss Lily."

"And you let me sleep till twelve, when I have so much to do!" said Lily. "Go and get breakfast ready ... or you'd better mind yourself!"

And Lily put out her hand to lay hold of a boot; but Glass-Eye was gone.



Lily, while dressing, reflected upon her new responsibilities, upon the way in which servants should be treated. No familiarity; not too severe, either; and no smackings ... that is to say ... however ...

"I must dress her simply," thought Lily. "My hats, but without the feathers; coarse thread gloves; and she must always carry a parcel."

Lily was eager to go to rehearsal, accompanied by her maid. There is no rehearsing at "rehearsal:" the "times," the scenic effects are settled with the conductor of the band; there are no bare arms or bloomers practising on their carpets: a few dark groups, in ordinary walking dress; others, in their shirt sleeves, are opening boxes, and no mystery, no shifting lights: the stage and the house one wan hole, except the red and gold note of the curtain and the black mass of the musicians, with the gleaming brasses.

The artistes went up to the conductor, one after the other, and explained their "turns:"

"When I come on, this tune, soft, six times, to begin with; then, once, loud. When I go off ... a roll of drums."

The band, each time, played two or three bars, mechanically, at sight; then it was understood and ... next, please.

Lily had seen this before, but not under these conditions; not dressed as at present; not accompanied by a maid. She listened as hard as she could when she walked on to the stage, caught the remarks, enjoyed the impression which she produced. They seemed to ask:

"Who is it? A singer? A dancer?"

"No, Lily; Miss Lily, you know."

She guessed all that. Then:

"My score, Maud!"

And, leaning toward the orchestra, she explained, in her turn: pizzicati, mazurka, frog, swan, back-wheel, the waltz for the twirls, the march for the exit. And Lily withdrew with a half-curtsey and a pretty smile. Next, she put out her things in her dressing-room, on the table, before the looking-glass: brushes, pencils, grease-paints, strings of pearls for her hair. She hung a cord from the door to the window, to dry her tights on, when she washed a pair in the basin. She got out her little work-box, in case of anything tearing, threaded a needle, freshened up the knots of her ribbons, pinned photographs and p.-c.'s on the wall. And, over all, she hung her gollywog, a hairy doll, white-collared, red-waistcoated, with, in its black face, under the bristling hair, two shining tacks by way of eyes. It was the protecting idol. Not that Lily, ever faithful to the Church of England, believed much in gollywogs; but, like most music-hall people, she felt safer when she knew it was there. And her dressing-room, with the spangled skirts and the tights hanging down like flayed skins, suggested some strange, exotic chapel in which a fetish sat enthroned.

After that, Lily had nothing left to do. She went out with Glass-Eye and walked round to the front to look at her lithos. She saw to her annoyance that a serio was topping the bill—and a comic singer middling it and a cinematograph bottoming it. But no matter, she had a good place, just under the bill-topper.

Next came shopping, through the windows. She bought a pair of thread gloves for Glass-Eye at Lewis's and then went in and lay on her bed, feeling ever so tired from getting up late that morning. She dreamed and dreamed, while Glass-Eye went marketing. As soon as Lily was alone, the thought pricked her like a pin: looking pretty, indeed! Her gentlemen friends! Jimmy, that traitor, and Trampy! Trampy would be sure to play her some dirty trick. Oh, if she could get a divorce from him, in spite of all! She had made inquiries in London. She would want a solicitor. She must have one, to set inquiries on foot.... She could have as many witnesses as she pleased: all those girls ... and the stage hands ... and two artistes, on the day when Trampy, in his fury, had flung his bike at her on the stairs; the pedal had grazed her temple, yes, at Dresden. That wasn't the way to treat a lady. Everything that had happened was his fault; and they'd see who won the day, he or she. Her forehead wrinkled up with anger when she thought of it. She bit her lips and clenched her fists and then ... and then ... enough of that! She'd see to-morrow. And other cares came to bother her: the indispensable things which she would have to buy at the end of the week out of her salary; open-work stockings, an aigrette for the theater, a little black bog-oak pig to wear at her wrist. And Jimmy's thousand marks ...

"Damn it, let him wait!" And, with her hand on her lucky charm, Lily fell asleep.

In the evening, at the theater, she forgot everything. She felt a longing, a fevered desire to appear. When her turn came, after the xylophones, who seemed, behind their tables laden with bottles, to be keeping a bar of musical sounds; when the light shining on the great back-drop threw up into dazzling relief the blue sea, the blue sky and the white colonnade and terraces; when, amid the flash of the lime-light and the thunder of the orchestra, she made her entrance on the stage, Lily had a smile of triumph. Life was beginning for her at last! She could have cried out for happiness to that human mass which, behind the flaming streak of the footlights, spread itself, bare-necked and bedizened, in the warm shadow of the front boxes. And she directed a scarlet smile, set off with a glint of gold, to the audience.

"I believe I was grand to-night," said Lily, as she went off, out of breath. "Oh, if there had been an agent in the house! But no such luck: they're never there when they're wanted! And those two fellows," she thought to herself. "If they had been there, they'd have died of jealousy."

Everybody spoiled her. She needed a strong head to resist the flatteries with which she was overwhelmed, both as artiste and woman. For instance, when a row of Roofers were puffing away on the stage, some manager, who had known her when she was "that high," was sure to observe that her talent, her firm, round hips—"Eh, Lily, you've got plenty of that now!" ... Lily blushed under the compliment—would make more impression than a whole herd of Roofers:

"Eh, Lily? I say, what are you doing to-night? Come and have some ..."

"Glass-Eye, my handkerchief," Lily broke in, suspecting an invitation to supper.

Glass-Eye, in obedience to a gesture of Lily's, opened the wrist-bag, gave Lily the lace handkerchief and Lily hid her mocking smile in a scented gesture. Then:

"Good-by. Ta-ta!"

And they shook hands, like good friends, nothing more.

Glass-Eye frightened off the admirers with her fixed stare. And Lily had no lack of them. She loved flirting. She wanted adulation, wanted to be made much of. She had a revenge to take, arrears to make up; she and sympathy had, till then, been strangers. She now took her fill of it, got carried away, saw nothing but lovers around her, three or four at a time, as when the comic quartet, the Out-of-Tunes, used to grin kisses to her in the street. It was for her that they were there, every one of them, down to the acting managers, who did not disdain to come round from the front and take a turn on the stage. It might be a question of steam-pipes or electric wires; no matter, Lily took it all to herself, made herself amiable toward their dress-coats and white shirt-fronts, and said "'K you!" with the great stage bow, the body bent in a sweeping curtsey, when they complimented her on her firm, round hips. She stabbed them with smiles, to make sure of complimentary phrases in their weekly reports to the central boards. All of them; the electrician, the conductor of the band, she had them all at her feet. It became a need for Lily to see people all around her dying for love. It gave her a feeling of mingled pride and remorse.

"Can I help it, Glass-Eye?" she would ask, to quiet her conscience. "They're mad. They would leave their wives and children for me!"

She had an autograph album filled with "thoughts" and declarations:

"I love you! Je vous aime! Ich liebe dich!"



Lily, now that the audience was good for invitations to supper, bouquets and sweets, occupied herself with that somber mass which, formerly, did not cause her so much uneasiness as the presence of her Pa. Lily, like a real stage-girl, who had beheld waves miles high between Harwich and the Hook of Holland, saw in a few flowers a bouquet large enough to fill a cab and the least little love letter grew, in her eyes, into an offer to present her with motor-cars and to abandon wife and child. If a gentleman, for once in a way, stood on the pavement waiting for her, she dreamed of an elopement. And there were pros, too, who prowled around her, in the half light of the wings, and came up to her with outstretched hand:

"Hullo, Mrs. Trampy!"

"Call me Miss Lily," she said, in a vexed voice. "That's the name I'm known by."

And many of them did know her, in fact, from having talked about her in Fourteenth Street in New York, or in State Street at Sidney, or in the theaters in South Africa, for that story of the whippings had traveled all around the world, under the folds of the Union Jack. Some proposed to take her with them in their show, or to go with her to clean her bike, instead of Glass-Eye:

"Is it a bargain?"

"Yes, I don't think!" said Lily.

Another, just off for Melbourne, told her that, in Australia, you could find fire-escapes to marry you for half-a-crown. They joked without constraint, in the pros' smoking-room, a small and dark corner between the house and the stage.... All of them, all the pros, she had them all at her feet; but she didn't care for that sort and she sent them all to eat coke.

The months all passed alike. She had finished the Bill and Boom tour. She continued in the private music-halls, from north to south, from east to west of England. In spite of Glass-Eye's impossible cooking and the everlasting ham sandwiches and pork-pies of the railway station refreshment rooms, Lily grew plumper and plumper, her nervous leanness filled out, with pigeon's eggs and ostrich's eggs everywhere, in front and behind. She did not kill herself with work. Once, in Glasgow, at a music-hall where, a few weeks earlier, Laurence had had a terrible fall, lying unconscious for two whole hours, the frightened manager said:

"No dangerous tricks, mind! They only get us into trouble!"

Another time, she was given only seven minutes, watch in hand, on the stage.

"Couldn't you cut that little trick? You know the one I mean," said the manager.

He called a little trick a performance which it had cost her eighteen months' hard practice and no end of bruises to learn. Lily did not wait to be asked twice. She cut as desired and thought it a jolly lot easier to trot round quietly, as though out for a ride, with pretty smiles to the audience. She ended by paying more attention to her dresses than to her work:

"It's not so much what one does," she said, "as the way one does it."

The sympathy with which she was surrounded unmanned the Spartan in her. She strove to please, no longer gave her performance for herself, like a machine, unerring and exact. Already in a few months, she was spoiled. She looked for adventitious successes. She said, "The audience is very cold at Birmingham," because she was not asked out to supper, and, "They do like artistes at Sheffield, gee!" because a gentleman had sent her champagne and flowers in her dressing-room.

In the towns where she played three times a day—a matinee and two night turns—she gave half of her performance, cut whatever was dangerous or tiring. She never practised now; just went down in the morning to fetch her letters at the theater, where she loved receiving them, post-cards especially, which any one could read. She said to the jossers:

"Send me lots; talk about motor-cars and champagne suppers: that drives the pros wild."

She left them lying on the table, or else walked about on the stage, with her letters in her hand, like a lady overwhelmed with offers, with invitations. If, by any chance, she went to the practice at the end of the week, it was to display her hat, her new boots; and she laughed to herself when she saw the artistes, each on his carpet, fagging away like mad. She felt like a fine lady visiting a boarding-school, among those little girls practising their flip-flaps or gluing themselves to the wall to try their back-bendings. The pride of a Marjutti, who, they said, tortured her spinal column to achieve a double knot; the inordinate ambition of a Laurence, risking her life for the pleasure of risking it, were things which she did not understand. And then, all those accidents! Dolly Pawnee, the other day, had broken her arm at the New York Hippodrome; the Gilson girl had fallen on her head at Budapest. They were mad, thought Lily, to do all that without being obliged to! No, no; no more of that for her! The last thing she wanted was to spoil her face, seeing that she had nothing but her smile to keep her. And Lily grew timid, looked upon herself more and more as a very precious little thing. She gave herself terrible airs on rehearsal day; thought the stage too slippery, or too small. Lily wanted a stage thirty feet wide, no less; she who, in the old days, at a gesture from Pa, would have performed her whole turn, including the head-on-the-saddle, on the top of a cab or on the Stoke Newington pavement. Formerly, she used to think everything good, did not know what fatigue meant; now, in the middle of her turn, she would say to herself, sometimes with a feeling of discouragement: