Sylvia tried to produce Lily as a dancer; for a week or two they worked hard at imitations of the classical school, but very soon they both grew tired of it.
“The nearest we shall ever get to jingling our money at this game,” Sylvia said, “is jingling our landlady’s ornaments on the mantelpiece. Lily, I think we’re not meant for the stage. And yet, if I could only find my line, I believe.... I believe.... Oh, well, I can’t, and so there’s an end of it. But look here, winter’s coming on. We’ve got nothing to wear. We haven’t saved a penny. Ruin stares us in the face. Say something, Lily; do say something, or I shall scream.”
“I don’t think we ought to have eaten those plums at dinner. They weren’t really ripe,” Lily said.
“Well, anyhow, that solves the problem of the moment. Put your things on. You’d better come out and walk them off.”
They were playing in Eastbourne that week, where a sudden hot spell had prolonged the season farther into September than usual; a new company of entertainers known as “The Highwaymen” was attracting audiences almost as large as in the prime of summer. Sylvia and Lily paused to watch them from the tamarisks below the Marina.
Suddenly Sylvia gave an exclamation.
“I do believe that’s Claude Raglan who’s singing now. Do you remember, Lily, I told you about the Pink Pierrots? I’m sure it is.”
Presently the singer came round with the bag and a packet of his picture post-cards. Sylvia asked if he had a photograph of Claude Raglan. When he produced one she dug him in the ribs, and cried:
“Claudie, you consumptive ass, don’t you recognize me? Sylvia.”
He was delighted to see her again, and willingly accepted an invitation to supper after the show, if he might bring a friend with him.