"Why, that's splendid!" said Matthias, affecting an enthusiasm which he hardly felt. "And—you made good—eh?"
"Well"—she laughed a little consciously—"I guess I did make good. But he didn't. He was a boozer, and they threw us out of the bill last Wednesday."
"That's too bad," said Matthias sympathetically. "I see."
And truly he did begin to see: she was out of a job and wanted assistance to another. It wasn't the first time—nor yet merely the hundredth—that he had been approached on a similar errand. People seemed to think that—simply because he wrote plays which, if produced at all, scored nothing more than indifferent successes at best!—he could wheedle managers into providing berths for every sorry incompetent who caught the footlight fever. It was very annoying. Not that he wouldn't be glad to place them all, given time and influence; but he had neither.
Joan, watching him closely, saw his face darken, guessed cunningly the cause. And suddenly the buoyant assurance which had been hers up to this stage in their interview deserted her utterly. No longer enheartened by faith in the potency of her good looks and the appeal of her necessity, she became again the constrained and timid girl of unreasonable and inarticulate demands.
After a brief silence, Matthias looked up with a smile.
"I don't suppose you have anything else in sight?"
Joan shook her head.
"And you need a job pretty hard—eh?"
"Oh, I do!" she cried. "I haven't hardly any money, and the Deans have gone away, and the agencies won't pay any attention to me—"