"You mean you have had no experience? I'm sorry, but I've made it a rule never to give any young girl her first engagement on the stage."
"But why?" gasped Martha.
"Because I don't approve of their going on the stage."
"Yet you yourself have won success," argued Martha. "And you must have started some time."
Motioning Martha to bring a chair and sit beside her, Mrs. Dainton leaned forward impulsively and took her hands in her own.
"You don't know all that my success has cost me, my dear," she said simply. "Success is a wonderful thing, but the road to it is paved with temptations."
"I know all that, but surely there must be some way to overcome the obstacles," insisted Martha.
"I once thought the same," mused Mrs. Dainton, with a far-away look in her eyes. "But there came a time when I hated myself, and all the world. Shall I tell you a story, my dear?"
"I would love to hear it," replied Martha, earnestly, gazing into the eyes of the elder woman.
"Once there was another girl, like you: young, ambitious, innocent," began Mrs. Dainton, softly. "She, too, was poor and wretched. But some people called her handsome. As so many others have done under similar circumstances, she turned toward the stage. She commenced at the very bottom in the chorus of a London musical production. The company she was with came to America, and little by little she progressed, but oh, it was such hard work and the poverty was so grinding. Her salary was almost nothing. Soon, in this strange country, she was in debt. The landlady of her boarding-house was kind for a week or so, but the girl was hopelessly involved. Then, one day, a note came to the theater. She opened it, and found inside—a hundred-dollar bill."