If it hadn’t been for her Ma’s insults and Jimmy’s and Trampy’s—when it all came back to her, it was like a needle stuck in her heart!—Lily would have been in the seventh heaven! No more Pa, no more Ma, no more anybody; no boss, no prof, no husband, nothing, all alone ... with her maid! Certainly, there would be the worry of business, looking for her “digs,” seeing the agents, writing letters and so on; but she would know how to put herself forward, how to make the most of her work; and she smiled as she reflected how little all those worries meant, compared with her past life: and she would be free, free, free at last. She was going to earn money, to enjoy life.
And the train rushed on, rushed on through the fields. Glass-Eye, with her nose glued to the window, was astonished to find everything so large outside of London: red villages decked the green country-side; and then came empty railway stations. Sometimes the train slowed down:—a large silent town lay spread in the valley, white smoke rose from the endless roofs; homes, more homes; the air of rest, the empty streets and the indistinct chimes of the church-bells proclaimed to the pale heavens the majesty of prayer. Lily listened with a dreamy air; it all reminded her of things:
“It’s like the American engines,” she said to the Three Graces, “that used to ring their bells when they passed through Syracuse.”
But the train rushed on, rushed on.... And they again began to talk shop, as always: with, here and there, an excursion into the cost of food. The Graces, just then, were unpacking their lunch; and Lily fetched her traveling provisions from her bag in the corridor. There was a sound of clattering plates from end to end of the train, in a mist of tobacco-smoke. Lily rejoined the party very quickly, to avoid coming in contact with the pros, and, waited on by Glass-Eye, attacked her meal and broke her bread so heartily that the crusts flew to the ceiling. They drank out of the same cup, took their meat in their hands, Lily saying that fingers were made before forks. They chattered noisily, with the time-honored jokes about apples and bananas. They made Glass-Eye talk a lot of nonsense. Lily, flinging back her head, laughed full-throated, held her sides.
“My!” said the Graces. “What a pity that we are separating! It would have been so nice to travel together; one’s never bored with you. What a tomboy!”
“’K you!” said Lily, greatly flattered, with a stage curtsey.
Unfortunately, they would have to part at Warrington. The Graces were going on to Glasgow, Lily was changing for Liverpool; a few moments more and it was good-by, until chance....
At Lily’s request, the Graces gave her a few last words of advice, explained the system of the pass-book of the Artistes’ Federation: the sixpenny stamp to be stuck in the little square every week; the extra stamp at each death of a member, for the benefit of the heirs. They talked to her of the Friday meetings at Manchester, at which every artiste can speak and see himself printed afterward in the London Performer.
“Good!” thought Lily. “I may have things to say. There will be news for somebody!”
The Graces had a “three years’ book,” the professional agenda, with nothing but Mondays marked on it for the weekly engagement: 8 January, 15 January and so on.