“It’s twelve o’clock and I’m still in bed!” she cried. “I ought to be practising!”
It was just a flash of pride, mixed with remorse. She knew it well enough; often and often, she had reproached herself for her idleness, for her habit of sleeping till the middle of the day, of taking her meals before the performance; but she would make up for it to-morrow! It is the usual refrain of stars who have become detached from their troupes, far removed from regimental discipline, so to speak: without a Pa, without a boss, you can do nothing. You must have some one to force you.
“A month on the three years’ book before to-night!” prayed Lily, touching her lucky charm.
And she studied the omens with an expert air, gave an ear to passing sounds, tried to catch the meaning of them, for she had visits to pay, letters to write, business, damn it!
That was what Pa used to say before her. And it was not so easy to turn a letter prettily: that was Trampy’s forte. She knew something about it. Lily, in her night-dress, with her elbows on the table, bit her pen, reflected, in a mental effort that gave her a headache. And that note-paper wasn’t nice, either, without a heading; true, it only rested with herself; every day she was approached with offers of artistic photographs, even of tricks which she did not do: standing with one foot on the saddle, the other in the air and her arms stretched out before her, like a flying genius; or as Cupid, with his dart in his hand: impossible things which neither the Pawnees nor Laurence would have dared to attempt! But it would look well, with her name in red letters: “Miss Lily,” or “La Belle Lily.” Or else a photograph showing her strolling in a great park, with a palace in the background, taken from nature, followed by her maid, or by a footman, hired by the hour, for the occasion.
“I think I shall select the governess,” said Lily to herself, “because of my biography; it will be nicer, truer. Or I might be taken riding on the back-wheel, like a lady just leaving the house and doing that to amuse herself?”
Lily, still undecided, took up the pen again: one foot on the saddle; six pairs of tights; three dresses; the theaters at which she had appeared....
What a pack of jossers! She couldn’t forgive the agents for her present want of success. She was exasperated. She felt inclined to go and see the managers themselves, those who had made love to her on the stage, and to send in her card to them—“Miss Lily”—just to teach those jossers of agents! Her independent ways had already made enemies for her: she knew that; but how could she help being angry? The tricks they played you, down to making you miss a marriage, as had happened in London, the other day, to the Three Graces, to one of them, who had been courted, during Mr. Fuchs’ absence, by the boy-violinist. Their agent had launched into slanders and even insults to prevent the marriage, which would have split up the troupe and broken the contract....
“What a pack of nigger-drivers!” thought Lily. “As long as they get their ten per cent., the rest can go hang, for all they care!”
There was no doubt that Lily had got out of bed on the wrong side, at the thought of having to climb all those staircases again and to dance attendance with the rotten lot in the waiting-rooms. But, by Jove, she could have boxed the ears of the first agent she visited that afternoon! He had the impudence to offer her a magnificent engagement in the Indian show at Earl’s Court, she to stain her skin brown, dye her hair black, with rings in her nose, at the wrists, at her ankles; a costume like Miss Ruth’s, all in gauze; the nautch-girl on the bicycle; six times a day, in the open air, to the sound of tomtoms. Play the negress; that’s what he offered her! She could not help laughing, in spite of her anger. But she became quite intractable and snubbed another agent who suggested a one day’s billet in a tiny music-hall at a ridiculous price.