"Do I look that way? Can every one I meet read what I am?" she asked tearfully.
I tried to evade her questioning, but she pressed for an answer. Then I told her that I was afraid her secret was only too plainly written.
"Why don't you give it up and go home?" I asked her.
She thought a minute and then answered that she couldn't.
"I'm not as bad as lots of the others," she said desperately. "I don't hope and long any more to become a great actress.
"I found there were so many more girls who were more accomplished than me. I couldn't get anything but a chorus part. I became discouraged and went out for good times. I had them, I guess."
When I asked her to go home and try to begin over again her anger was aroused. The company she had kept had left its mark on her.
"Say, now, don't hand me any of that religious talk," was her angry answer. "It's nothing to you why I don't go home. I've had good times and I am going to have more of them."
I talked to her for a few minutes, but soon found argument to be useless. We ate our dinner quietly and without further words. When I parted with her it seemed as though it were for the last time. I knew the end that was near at hand—the specter that was waiting for her.