It was gradually filling up behind Clifton and Jimmy; the iron door was constantly slamming upon the passage; knowing-looking Roofer girls passed, two by two, always two by two, joked for a moment with the scene shifters, shook hands here and there, disappeared up the dressing-room staircase. There was life, swarming life, everywhere, in the corners, behind the back-cloth. The New Zealanders arrived, with Lily and her Ma, for Ma never left her now, for fear of the gentlemen who prowled around like famished hyenas: villains who did not hesitate to throw bouquets on the stage to make ugly girls think they were pretty!
Lily seemed sad. She stopped for a moment. A haunting serenade droned across the stage, a Spanish melody sung by soft tremolo voices, with tapping of tambourines. It reminded her of Mexico: everything reminded her of that time now. She compared herself with Ave Maria. Oh, she would have liked to tell the whole world how she was treated, just the plain truth!—in her own little way. But no one cared, not even that rotten josser of a journalist, with his article published in The Piccadilly Magazine. It made her out a spoiled child, who had learned to ride in the country-lanes, with her French governess, and who had surprised her father and mother by coming home one day with her head on the saddle of her bicycle and her feet in the air, thereby causing an unparalleled scandal in that old Yorkshire family. Since then, they had been obliged to yield to her fancies and allow her to go on the stage with her little troupe of friends. Her salary? Ten pounds a night. Her recreation? The banjo....
“Rotten josser of a journalist!” thought Lily.
Nevertheless, she was flattered at heart because of the ten pounds a night and the governess.
But things happened to distract her thoughts: the Three Graces entered in their turn, followed by Nunkie; they stood talking for a few moments, while the apprentices went and dressed; and Lily soon followed them, after a last glance at a little woman and her “partner,” who were getting things ready for their performance—-some little hoops, two cardboard bottles, gilt balls—and then waited humbly in the shadow.
Lily recognized Para, who used to exhibit a troupe of parrots; somebody had put her “in his show,” no doubt, the Para-Paras, a new turn.
“How poor she looks!” Lily could not help whispering to Ma.
“You’ll be worse off yourself, some day,” said Ma, “if you go on as you’re doing! Don’t laugh at other people.”
Lily had dressed quickly and had come down to the stage with the Three Graces and they had ten minutes of joking behind the scenes, while Ma was still up-stairs, busy with the girls. Thea walked on tip-toe to restore the circulation to her legs; Kala practised back-bendings: Lily applauded with the tip of her thumbnail, flung back her head and laughed and, from time to time, looked round over her shoulder to see if Ma was coming down.
She amused herself also by feeling Thea’s arms, all those little muscles which stood out, man’s arms: she would have liked to nestle in them, to feel herself squeezed till she cried out. And everything around them savored of love: there were lots of Roofers; little intrigues were embarked upon; there were stifled fits of laughter and cries of “Hands off!” and “Stop!” Amorous speeches and stories of romantic adventures were exchanged in whispers; the flight of the Gilson girl, the other day, at Liverpool, was told in full detail; a Roofer, it seemed, giving a high kick the day before, had sent her slipper flying into the audience; it was returned to her filled with chocolate creams; and to-day there was a boquet with a letter in it.