The stage-door keeper heard the intelligence with absolute indifference; but the girl on the step looked gratified.
"What shall I do?" asked Mamie.
"I can't do no more than send in for you, Miss. It ain't much good your waiting—the call won't be over till three o'clock."
"Could I see him then?"
"He'll come out. If you like to take your chance——"
"I'll come back at three o'clock," she said. It was then eleven.
She turned into the Strand—the Strand that has broken more hearts than Fleet Street. Here a young actor passed her, who was also pacing the inhospitable pavements until the hour in which he hoped to see patience and importunity bear fruit. He wore a fashionable overcoat, and swung his cane with a gloved hand. Presently he would seek a public-house and lunch on a scone, and a glass of "mild-and-bitter." If he had "bitter," he would be a halfpenny short in his homeward fare to Bow. There a musical comedy actress went by, who had "married a swell." His family had been deeply wounded, and showed their mortification by allowing her to support him. She had had three children; and when he was drunk, which was frequently, he said, "God forbid that they should ever become damned mummers like their mother!" A manager had just told her that "she had lost her figure, and wouldn't look the part!" and she was walking back to Islington, where the brokers were in the house. A popular comedian, who had been compelled to listen to three separate tales of distress between Charing Cross and Bedford Street, and had already lent unfortunate acquaintances thirty shillings, paused, and hailed a hansom from motives of economy. It was the typical crowd of the Strand, a crowd of the footlights. The men whose positions had been won were little noticeable, but the gait and costume of the majority—affected Youth, and disheartened Age—indicated their profession to the least experienced eyes. Because she grew very tired, and not that she had any expectation of hearing good news, Mamie went into Mr. Passmore's office, and sat down.
And she did not hear any. After an hour she went away, and rested next in the anteroom of another of the agents, who repeated that "things were very quiet," and that "he wouldn't forget her." Seven or eight other girls were waiting their turn to be told the same thing. At a quarter to three she went back to the Queen's.
"Is he coming out now?" she said. "Am I too soon?"
"Eh?" said the stage-door keeper.