“Vait a minute. How much have you got?”
“Isn't that my business, sir?”
“Touchy, ain't ye, miss? But if you mean bizness, I'll tyke a guinea and give you the first chawnce what comes in.”
Reluctantly, fearfully, distrustfully, Glory paid her guinea and left her address.
“Daddle doo,” said the agent.
Then she found herself in the street.
“Two weeks less for lodgings,” she thought, as she returned to the tobacconist's. But Mrs. Jupe seemed entirely satisfied.
“What did I tell ye, my dear? Good engygements ain't chasing nobody abart the streets these dyes, and there's that many girls now as can do a song and a dance and a recitashing——”
Three days passed, four days, five days, six days, a week, and still no word from Mr. Josephs. Glory called on him again. He counselled patience. It was the dead season at the theatres and music halls, but if she only waited——
She waited a week longer and then called again, and again, and yet again. But she brought nothing back except her mimicry of the man's manner. She could hit him off to a hair—his raucous voice, his guttural utterance, and the shrug of his shoulders that told of the Ghetto.