“Acting? No! I’m in Open Sesame, the Hall of a Thousand and One Marvels. Well, I suppose it is acting in a way, because I’m supposed to be a Turkish woman. You know, sequins and trousers and a what d’ye call it—round my face. You know. Oh dear, whatever is it called? A hookah!”
“But a hookah’s a pipe,” Sylvia objected. “You mean a yashmak.”
“That’s it. Well, I sell Turkish Delight, but some of the girls sell coffee, and for an extra threepence you can see the Sultan’s harem. It ought to go well. There’s a couple of real Turks and a black eunuch who gives me the creeps. The manager’s very hopeful. Which reminds me. He’s looking out for some more girls. Why don’t you apply? It isn’t like you, Sylvia, to be doing what’s nothing better than a servant’s job. I’m so afraid I shall get a varicose vein through standing about so much, and an elastic stocking makes one look so old. Oh dear, don’t let’s talk about age. Drink up and have another.”
Sylvia explained to Mabel about her lack of money and clothes, and it was curious to discover how pleasant and sympathetic Mabel was now—another instance of the degrading effect of love, for Sylvia could hardly believe that this was the hysterical creature who used to keep her awake in Fitzroy Street.
“I’d lend you the money,” said Mabel, “but really, dear, until we open I haven’t got very much. In fact,” she added, looking at the empty glasses, “when I’ve paid for these two I shall be quite stony. Still, I live quite close. Finborough Road. Why don’t you come and stay with me? I’ll take you round to the manager to-morrow morning. He’s sure to engage you. Of course, the salary is small. I don’t suppose he’ll offer more than fifteen shillings. Still, there’s tips, and anything would be better than slaving for that woman. I live at three hundred and twenty. I’ve got a nice room with a view over Brompton Cemetery. One might be in the country. It’s beautifully quiet except for the cats, and you hardly notice the trains.”
Sylvia promised that she would think it over and let her know that evening.
“That’s right, dear. The landlady’s name is Gowndry.”
They parted with much cordiality and good wishes, and Sylvia went back to Lillie Road. Mrs. Meares was deeply injured when she was informed that her lady-help proposed to desert her.
“But surely you shall wait till I’ve got a servant,” she said. “And what will poor Mr. Witherwick do? He’s so fond of you, Sylvia. I’m sure your poor father would be most distressed to think of you at Earl’s Court. Such temptations for a young girl. I look upon myself as your guardian, you know. I would feel a big responsibility if anything came to you.”
Sylvia, however, declined to stay.