A big car slid past them, ridiculously upholstered in white velvet. An effete-looking youth and the girl who had stated that her "pa" was rich lolled in the back seat.
Maggy's eyes followed them speculatively.
"Wonder if there's anything in it?" she remarked.
"In what?"
"In that sort of a good time. Flat, money, pet dog, car, week-ends at Brighton—enough to eat."
"I don't want to think about it."
"Neither do I. But I have lately. I'm wondering what on earth we're standing out for. No one thinks any the better of us for it. The girls all think us fools, and the men just grin and wait."
"Don't talk about it. Talking makes it all seem worse."
"One day I shall do more than talk. I shall walk off."
Alexandra said nothing. She knew Maggy's mood. Maggy was hungry, tired, and cross. Motives of economy impelled them towards their lodgings, where half a tin of sardines was waiting to be consumed. Neither had had anything to eat since early morning. And when they had lunched they would have to walk back to the theater for rehearsal again at three. Maggy suddenly halted before a Lyons' depot.