I’ve got a job! Got it Tuesday, but I couldn’t write before—been too rushed with clothes. I went to the Fleur-de-Lys first thing—but no go. Wouldn’t look at me. Never got near any one, not even the A.S.M., let alone Willy. It can’t be helped, but I am sick—because the girl who’s got it, I heard today, is just my type. If I could have only got at Willy! I know she can’t walk across a stage even—just an elderly, academy flapper, because she was with me in a fit-up once. But she’s a friend of the S.M.—’Nuff said! Well, dearie—the end of it was I got so fed up doing the rounds—Whitney asked me if I’d walk on—me! I could have slapped his face—and yet I wanted to howl—I’ve got all soft among you dears—and then coming out I barged bang into old Stevenson—you know I told you how Johnnie used to kick up such a fuss about him—and my dear, he’s taking out a tour—Africa—a year’s job at least, and possibly India and Australia afterwards, and even America. Stock. And he’s offered me to share leads with Phœbe Desborough! She’s a good sort—decent—I’ve digged with her before now and—well, I’ve accepted it. The money’s not much, but they provide the costumes and I know most of the crowd, and Stevie and I have always been pals—in fact, I shouldn’t be surprised——Stop it, Coral!
But it’s something settled anyway. That Wilbraham business did for me—I’d counted so. You never know your luck, do you? I expect Justin did what he could—but oh, if I’d only been able to see Willy!
We start Saturday—it’ll be an awful scramble. I suppose you and Justin wouldn’t come and see me off? Don’t bring Tim. I’ve written to Grannie. We talked things out, you know. And I know she won’t set him against me. I know that, else I’d never let her have him. But it’s best for him. I’m not quite a fool. The train leaves Victoria 2.15. If Timmy misses me—but you’d better not bring him. Wish I could have got the London job. Well—it’s done now. Justin will get up on his hind legs and prance, but I can’t help it. Grannie won’t, anyway. She’ll understand. She’s worth all the rest of you put together. That’s why I let her have Timmy. You’ll look after Timmy?
Laura hurried on to the immense Coral Cloud sprawling across the last page and smiled absently at a sudden memory of Coral expatiating on the effectiveness of her stage name: “So catchy! The Cherry-Pie Tooth-Paste people were after it once! wanted a signed photo. Only Johnnie struck—the billy! It’s quite worth while! They don’t pay cash, of course, but you get their creams for nothing.”
Justin had been wooden as he listened.
But her smile died away as she read the letter again. She could not understand what had happened. It had been Coral’s business and Coral’s alone to prove her capacity; but Justin had definitely promised to write in such a way that the interview at least, would be assured her. Justin was no tall talker. If he said he could do that much, Laura knew that he could do it. Besides, she herself had more than once met the elusive Mr. Wilbraham at the Priory ... a nice quiet man.... She knew that he and Justin were friends.... Odd.... It was certainly odd.... Had the letter miscarried? Because of course—of course Justin had written.... There was no question of that....
She went puzzling up to the Priory to find that Mrs. Cloud had also received a letter, carefully written and carefully spelled—poor Coral at her grateful stilted best; but it was nearly all about Timothy. There was no mention of the Fleur-de-Lys or Mr. Wilbraham.
They discussed the matter with beautifully concealed uneasiness.
“Well—” Laura began, and then most cheerfully, “oh well—”
Mrs. Cloud drummed with her fingers.