"No."
"Can you sing?"
"No."
"Dance?"
"Yes." (Abinger had allowed her to take lessons in Florence.)
"Good legs?"
He regarded her puzzled eyes with impatience.
"Any photographs in tights? I like to know what I'm engaging, you know. A lot of you girls come here with your spindle-shanks hidden under flounced petticoats and flowing skirts; and your bones wrapped up in heavy coats and feather boas, and you cut a great dash, and when we get you on the stage in tights it's another story altogether—not that I'm saying it about you, dear, for I can see——"
"I don't think I am what you require in any case," she said as she reached the door. "Good-morning."
She fled through the waiting-room and down the stairs. Some of the loungers shared a smile.