Everyone in the house continued to concern themselves over her welfare. Indeed, from the first hour of her arrival in London she had met with nothing but goodwill. Herein Heaven watched over her, for this general kindliness on the part of mankind at large was the best possible balm for her scorned and wounded affections. True, no care from others could really touch the injury inflicted by "the one," but it all served to help melt the ice that seemed gathered around her breast.
Her acquaintance with the merry, good-natured "Fun in the Hayfield" people proved a veritable salvation. Left to herself for any appreciable period, she weakly sank into a state of brooding despair, but save for the evening of the "photographer-hunting" day, she was in their society for practically the whole of the remainder of the week.
Mr. Cuthbert had offered to pass her into the music hall that night, but she declined the offer. She was tired, and shrank from the anticipated noise and glare. But once alone she regretted her decision. Memories of the past crowded thick upon her, with their train of regrets, hot indignation, bitter sorrow, and the thousand and one tearing passions that rendered thought unendurable. Solitude was—for the present at least—but a state of torture to be avoided at all costs. Distraction, company, variety was no longer a matter of choice, but an absolute necessity. She had vainly endeavoured to find relief from the agony of thought by mingling with the passing crowds. Despairing, she returned home and to bed, but her brain had worked itself into a tumult during the long evening hours, and no sleep came. Long she lay awake, weeping, hating, yearning and lamenting.
"You look paler than ever, Evarne, my dear! Whatever have you been doing to yourself?" cried Margaret, who came up to present her with some chocolates from a box that some admiring "chap" had sent round to the stage door. She was in high feather over the little gift.
"People think we get so many flowers given us we haven't vases to put them in, and so many pairs of gloves we haven't hands enough to wear them, and so many sweeties we haven't digestions enough to tackle them all, let alone cheques and presents of jewellery about once a week!" she exclaimed; "but I assure you that's a jolly big mistake, as you'll find out, dear. Come on, tuck in to chocs and take some of this row. They've got pinky cream, and you'll have to put some colour on from the outside, if you can't manage to provide it somehow from the inside," and she laughed gaily.
"I do hate to be alone," explained Evarne, brightening visibly at the effect of this chatter. "I—I've had great trouble lately, and when I'm by myself—well—I think!"
Margaret was full of sympathy.
"Poor dear, don't 'think' then, don't be alone. I know what we will do. I'm going to order Mrs. Burling to serve your meals along with ours, and we will see if we can't cheer you up among us."
"I should like that," cried Evarne, jumping at the idea. Thus until the following Sunday, when these kind friends moved on to play their "sketch" in a hall right out of London, she was scarcely left alone for an hour. Every night she went with Mrs. Cuthbert and Margaret to their dressing-room, where she assisted in arraying them, and was instructed in the many mysteries of "making-up." She learnt many things—the knack of melting cosmetic in a teaspoon and applying it to the eyelashes with a hairpin—how to fluff out her hair by combing it the wrong way—how to transform a skin of common lard into glorified face-grease, sweetly smelling of essence of bergamot—and a dozen other little tricks of the trade.
Either Margaret or Bertie accompanied her on her daily visits to the agents, and on Thursday morning—albeit she had as yet no "sticky-backs"—they helped her study the new number of the Stage. Her experienced friends warned her that the approach of summer was not a favourable time to find "a shop."