The staircase that led to his waiting-room was crowded with lounging, clean-shaven men, and the waiting-room hummed with the voices of girls and women and more men, all gabbling at once. Phrases made themselves heard above the din.
"No: I won't go into panto—not if Frankie goes down on his knees to me."
"Oh, he's sure to do that, dear!"
"She says that her figure is her stock-in-trade—musical comedy, of course."
"H'm! more stock than trade, I should say."
A score or so of made-up eyes raked Poppy from under heavy complexion-veiling; she became aware of such strong scents as frangipani and chypre; many ropes of large pearls; heavy fur coats flung open to reveal sparkling art-chains slung round bare, well-powdered necks. A wry-lipped quotation of Abinger's flitted through her memory:
"Diamonds me.
Sealskins me,
I'm going on the stage."
When, after weary waiting, her turn came to be admitted to the agent's inner sanctum, she found a clean-looking, brown young man, with grey hair and a shrewd eye. He shot an enveloping glance over her while she was closing the door.
"Well, dear, what do you want?" he asked briskly, but pleasantly—all theatrical people "dear" each other automatically, but Poppy, not knowing this, flushed at the term. She explained that she was seeking work on the stage.
"Any experience?"