"There's no place for you on the halls, then. Perhaps you'd do all right in legitimate drama. Can you recite something?"
"I'm afraid I don't know anything dramatic," Evarne was obliged to confess, her cheeks growing pinker. "I don't know much poetry at all, and what I have learnt from time to time are only pretty little bits that have taken my fancy."
"Dear me——" Mr. Cuthbert was recommencing, when his wife broke in—
"Don't you do it, my dear. It's a dreadful profession for them as haven't got the gifts. It's a grinding, killing business. I'd as soon see a girl of mine in her grave."
"The old lady isn't far wrong," agreed Mr. Cuthbert. "You take my advice, Miss Stornway, and try something else."
"But," declared Evarne despairingly, "whatever I tried it would be just the same. I—I'm not properly qualified for anything. It's not my fault, but there it is! I didn't think of the stage when I found I'd got to earn my own living, but now it has been suggested to me I feel sure I stand a better chance of earning money quickly that way than any other."
"You've got a real beautiful face, if you don't mind my being personal," said Margaret. "Perhaps you might get a thinking part, right enough—or there's pantomime. You're tall, aren't you? If you've got good legs and a fine figure——What's your waist?"
Yet once again Evarne was compelled to shake her head apologetically.
"I'm afraid——" she started, then stopped abruptly. However, frankness seemed to prevail here, so she continued after an imperceptible pause. "I don't think I've got what you mean by a fine figure. I need very careful and special dressing to look really nice. You see, I don't wear corsets, and so——"
"My dear!" interrupted both ladies simultaneously, "how can you manage without?"