“Jest as you like, my dear; myke yerself at 'ome. On'y don't be in a 'urry about engygements. Good ones ain't tots picked up by the childring in the streets these dyes.”
Nevertheless it was agreed that Glory was to lodge at the tobacconist's, and Mr. Jupe was to bring her box from the hospital on coming home that night from his work. She was to pay ten shillings a week, all told, so that her money would last four or five weeks, and leave something to spare. “But I shall be earning long before that,” she thought, and her resources seemed boundless. She started on her enterprise instantly, knowing no more of how to begin than that it would first be necessary to find the office of an agent. Mr. Jupe remembered one such place.
“It's in a street off of Waterloo Road,” he said, “and the name on the windows is Josephs.”
Glory found this person in a fur-lined coat and an opera hat, sitting in a room which was papered with photographs, chiefly of the nude and the semi-nude, intermingled with sheafs of playbills that hung from the walls like ballads, from the board of the balladmonger.
“Vell, vot's yer line?” he asked.
Glory answered nervously and indefinitely.
“Vot can you do then?”
She could sing and recite and imitate people.
The man shrugged his shoulders. “My terms are two guineas down and ten per cent on salary.”
Glory rose to go. “That is impossible. I can not——”