"Am I?" asked poor Alexandra. Tears were not far from her own eyes now. The girl saw them, and the fount of her own dried up in her compassion for a disappointment that must be even greater than her own because of the actual need behind it. A lady, and with less than fifteen shillings in the world! Why, she had always been able to earn nearly ten shillings a week, without counting her board and keep. She had always been able to count on regular employment, plenty of food and a fairly comfortable bed; and until she had been dazzled by the magnificent prospect of ten pounds a week and still more by the idea of becoming a "star actress," she had been fairly contented with her life. She wished she had never seen that catch advertisement in the newspaper.
"I shouldn't think any more about the stage if I were you," advised Alexandra.
"I shan't," was the resolute answer. "It's no good, is it?"
"Not a bit of good."
The girl hesitated.
"Do you mind telling me," she said, "if it's very bad. The girls on it, I mean."
"It's difficult sometimes for them to be good," was Alexandra's qualified reply.
"That's pretty much what our milkman says. He had a wife he divorced that used to go on the stage once a year in pantomime."
Alexandra smiled wanly. She was getting accustomed to the democratic atmosphere of the stage, where social differences are inexistent. The dragging in of the milkman's wife was only a sharp-cut illustration of the lengths to which the leveling-down process could go. The life had robbed her of all surprise at the necessity of having to rub shoulders with ex-shopgirls and the like; but this was the first time she had found herself on terms of equality with a domestic servant.
"Dessay I'm well out of it," said the girl philosophically. "I hope you'll get on, miss."