"I don't see why it is nonsense," cried Martha, rising to her feet so suddenly that Clayton had only time to grasp the case of precious scarabs in time to save them from a fall. "I must do something, and from what I have seen of theatrical people here at this hotel, they all have plenty of money. Even that Miss Forsythe, who dresses so loudly, earns a lot."
Clayton leaned back in his chair and laughed.
"My dear child," he tried to explain, "I know the girl you mean. She's a show-girl in New York. I saw her at the station just now when my train arrived. To see her in that elaborate costume, you wouldn't believe that her salary is just twenty dollars a week, would you?"
"Twenty dollars a week?"
"Yes. She's in the chorus."
"But how can she afford to stay at this hotel on such a salary?"
At that Clayton coughed and began to sort out the scarabs.
"She probably also has an—er—independent source of income," he stammered.
"Could I get twenty dollars a week on the stage?" inquired Martha, thoughtfully, not noticing his confusion.
"Very likely, if you are willing to start in the chorus," replied Clayton.