“I'm Josephs,” he said in a confidential undertone, “and if there's anything I can do for you—acting management—anything—it vill give me pleesure.”
Glory flushed up and said, “But you don't seem to remember, sir, that we have met before.”
The man smiled blandly. “Oh, yes. I've kept track of you ever since and know all about you. You hadn't made your appearance then, and naturally I couldn't do much. But now—now if you vill give me de pleesure——”
“Then an agent is one who can do nothing for you when you want help, but when you don't want it——”
The man laughed to carry off his audacity. “Veil, you know vhat they say of us—agent from agere, 'to do,' and we're always 'doing.' Ha, ha! But if you are villing to let bygones be bygones, I am, and velcome.”
Glory's face was crimson. “Will somebody go for the stage doorkeeper?” she said, and one of the company went out on that errand. Then, raising her voice so that everybody listened, she said: “Mr. Josephs, when I was quite unknown, and trying to get on, and finding it very hard, as we all do, you played me the cruellest trick a man ever played on a woman. I don't owe you any grudge, but, for the sake of every poor girl who is struggling to live in London, I am going to turn you out of the house.”
“Eh? Vhat?”
The stage doorkeeper had entered. “Porter, do you see this gentleman? He is never to come into this theatre again as long as we are here, and if he tries to force his way in you are to call a policeman and have him bundled back into the street!”
“Daddle doo,” and the waxed mustache over the grinning mouth seemed to cut the face across.
When Josephs had gone Glory could see that the looks of indulgence on the faces of the company had gone also. “She'll do!” said one. “She's got the stuff in her!” said another, but Glory herself was now quaking with fear, and her troubles were not yet ended.