"Mr. Whitehead's gone to lunch. Won't be back to-day. No use waiting."
How quickly the room emptied! Alexandra did not know that a goodly proportion of its habitués would quickly foregather for consultation and refreshment in Rule's or the Bodega, where the atmosphere was redolent of alcoholic odors, curiously aromatic, sonorous with sustained conversation and the low chuckle of the comedians.
One saw the same faces again after the luncheon hour, at Denton's, at Hart's, at Paul Stannard's, a little less hopeful, a little more tired as the day went on.
Paul Stannard had got Alexandra her engagement at De Freyne's. She went to him again now. She liked him. He was a gentleman by birth, had drifted on to the stage, loathed it, could not get free of it, and ended by running a theatrical agency with fair success. He did not call all girls "dear," only the ones that liked it, and was more accessible to the rank and file than most agents.
"I thought I had fixed you up with De Freyne," he said. "His show's in for a long run. Couldn't stick it?"
"Mr. De Freyne told me to go."
Alexandra was tired. She could hardly stand.
"Sit down," invited Stannard. "Up against it?"
"Well, I've nothing to do. It's serious."
"I'm sorry." He turned over the leaves of a big book on his desk. "And I can't help you. Nothing's doing, except a sextette for Rio."