I wavered. Let us say my sympathy was stirred. But perhaps the lilac was responsible—lilac and a pretty girl seem to me a natural combination, like coffee and a cigarette. "Send her in!" I said.
I sat at the table and picked up a pen.
"Monsieur de Varenne—" She paused nervously on the threshold.
Maximin was a fool, she was not "pretty"; she was either plain, or beautiful. To my mind, she had beauty, and if she hadn't been an actress come to pester me for a part I should have foreseen a very pleasant quarter of an hour. "I can spare you only a moment, mademoiselle," I said, ruffling blank paper.
"It is most kind of you to spare me that."
I liked her voice too. "Be seated," I said more graciously.
"Monsieur, I have come to implore you to do something for me. I am breaking my heart in the profession for want of a helping hand. Will you be generous and give me a chance?"
"My dear mademoiselle—er—Laurent," I said, "I sympathise with your difficulties, and I thoroughly understand them, but I have no engagement to offer you—I am not a manager."
She smiled bitterly. "You are de Varenne—a word from you would 'make' me!"
I was wondering what her age was. About eight-and-twenty, I thought, but alternately she looked much younger and much older.