At that moment a beautiful typist appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Are you all waiting for the North-East call?”
“Yes!” cried the chorus.
“Well, it’s off. I’ve just had a phone through.”
“But look here! What about our expenses?” shouted a voice.
The typist looked down at them, and she couldn’t help laughing.
“Oh, you weren’t to have been paid. The North-East never pay their crowds.”
There was only a little round window at the Bitter Orange Company. No waiting-room—nobody at all except a girl, who came to the window when Miss Moss knocked, and said: “Well?”
“Can I see the producer, please?” said Miss Moss pleasantly. The girl leaned on the window-bar, half shut her eyes and seemed to go to sleep for a moment. Miss Moss smiled at her. The girl not only frowned; she seemed to smell something vaguely unpleasant; she sniffed. Suddenly she moved away, came back with a paper and thrust it at Miss Moss.
“Fill up the form!” said she. And banged the window down.