“It's salary day, my dear—vait there,” he said, and he put her into an inner room, which was tawdrily furnished in faded red plush, with piano and coloured prints of ballet girls and boxing men, and was full of the odour of stale tobacco and bad whisky.
She waited half an hour, feeling hot and ashamed and troubled with perplexing thoughts, and listening to the jingle of money in the adjoining room, mingled with the ripple of laughter and sometimes the exchange of angry words. At length the agent came back, saying, “Vell, vat can I do for you to-day, my dear?”
He had been drinking, his tone was familiar, and he placed himself on the end of the sofa upon which Glory was seated.
Glory rose immediately. “I came to ask if you have heard of anything for me,” she said.
“Sit down, my dear.”
“No, thank you.”
“Heard anything? Not yet, my dear. You must vait——”
“I think I've waited long enough, and if your promises amount to anything you'll get me an appearance at all events.”
“So I vould, my dear. I vould get you an extra turn at the Vashington, but it's very expensive, and you've got no money.”
“Then why did you take what I had if you can do nothing? Besides, I don't want anything but what my talents can earn. Give me a letter to a manager—for mercy's sake, do something for me!”