"Come!" cried a pleasant voice.
And in she went, to face Crossley himself—Crossley, the "weak and soft," caught behind his last entrenchment with no chance to escape. Had Mildred looked the usual sort who come looking for jobs in musical comedy, Mr. Crossley would not have risen—not because he was snobbish, but because, being a sensitive, high-strung person, he instinctively adopted the manner that would put the person before him at ease. He glanced at Mildred, rose, and thrust back forthwith the slangy, offhand personality that was perhaps the most natural—or was it merely the most used?—of his many personalities. It was Crossley the man of the world, the man of the artistic world, who delighted Mildred with a courteous bow and offer of a chair, as he said:
"You wished to see me?"
"If you are Mr. Crossley," said Mildred.
"I should be tempted to say I was, if I wasn't," said he, and his manner made it a mere pleasantry to put her at ease.
"There was no one in the outside room, so I walked on and on until your door stopped me."
"You'll never know how lucky you were," said he. "They tell me those fellows out there have shocking manners."
"Have you time to see me now? I've come to apply for a position in musical comedy."
"You have not been on the stage, Miss—"
"Gower. Mildred Gower. I've decided to use my own name."