“I—er—I shall go round to the Slade School and make inquiries,” said Madge quickly. “We are settled down now, and must lose no more time. I shall ask what is the very first day I can join.”
“I shall write to Mr Hammond, the editor of the Casket. His firm publish books as well as the magazine, and he took most of father’s things. I shall ask him if he can see me for ten minutes, as I am thinking of devoting myself to literature as a profession, and should be grateful for his advice.”
“I—er—I am going to pay a call at Hampstead,” said Hope, trying to look confident and self-possessed, but flushing a tell-tale pink all over her delicate face. “You remember the name of Miss Minnie Caldecott, who sings some of father’s songs? I found one of her cards, and she is at home every Tuesday afternoon. I thought if I went early I might see her before any one else arrived. I have been working at that new song ever since you left, Phil, and it is pretty! It’s the best thing I have written, and if she took a fancy to it, and promised to sing it at concerts, it would be so much easier to find a publisher. If I can summon courage I shall ask her to let me accompany her as well. If I could sell a few songs, and make a little money by playing accompaniments, it would help to pay for my lessons.”
Poor Hope! She looked at once so frightened, so eager, and so pretty that her sisters broke into a simultaneous murmur of sympathy.
“I’ll go with you,” said Philippa quickly. “You must have some one to support you, poor dear! And how—oh, how are we going to find our way?”
“Ask the porter downstairs. We shall have to go about alone, so the sooner we puzzle it out the better. Yes, do come, Phil! If you don’t, I shall probably run away as soon as I’ve rung the bell. Will she be very formidable, do you think?”
Philippa did not know, could not conjecture. Professional singers existed for her only on the programmes of concerts. She had never heard one more celebrated than Miss James, the singing-mistress from Coventry. Sometimes, she believed, they were paid fabulous prices for singing; but Minnie Caldecott did not seem to come in the first rank. Perhaps she, like themselves, was struggling to make her name.
The girls found their way to Hampstead with wonderfully little trouble; but it was more difficult to find Mayfield Rood, and they wandered about for half-an-hour before discovering its whereabouts. It was not an attractive situation; neither was the house a palatial residence; and though Miss Caldecott was “at home” as usual, the costume of the servant-maid left much to be desired. She led the way down a narrow entrance-hall, and showed the visitors into a room at the back of the house, saying that Miss Caldecott would be with them in a few minutes’ time.
It was barely half-past three, yet two lamps were already burning under elaborate pink shades, and there was a profusion of flowers on the mantelpiece and on the small tables with which the floor was crowded. The piano stood open, with a litter of torn sheets on the top, and there were photographs—photographs everywhere—of extraordinary-looking people, who all seemed to write their names underneath with fat quill-pens and many dashes. The lady with the little ring in the middle of her forehead was “Mabs;” the one swinging in a hammock was “Bella;” “Fanny” smirked from a bower of palms, and wore ropes and ropes of pearls round her neck. There was a framed photograph on the wall with a signature like the rest. From across the room Hope recognised a familiar name, and was about to rise to study it close at hand, when swish-swish came the rustle of silken skirts, the door opened, and Miss Caldecott herself made her appearance.