"Oh," she said, laughing, "we show-folks see a great many people—besides being seen by them—and I've heard a lot about you."
Harding's face darkened a little. "Then you've heard that I'm not much liked?"
"I've heard that some say so. But what of that? Miss De Montague says she wouldn't give a fig for a man everybody speaks well of—and she quoted something from a comedy—the 'School for Scandal.'"
"Will you tell me what people say?" he inquired curiously.
"Oh, that you are gloomy, reserved, and live all alone, and that you are—are not extravagant, and that you haven't had a very happy life."
"That last at least, if true, is a misfortune rather than a fault."
"It's all misfortune, ain't it?" said the girl sagely. "People don't make themselves. There's Mr. Bellario now. He thinks nature really meant him for a great warrior—somebody like Napoleon, you know. And instead of that he's—well, he calls himself a professional gentleman, but the boys call him a tumbler. I suppose it would be much grander to kill people than to jump through 'vampire traps'; but you see he didn't get his choice—any more than I did."
"Then you didn't want to go on the stage?"
"No, indeed. It was just for bread. Aunty was a 'second old woman'—and they got me in for 'utility,' as they call it. There was no one to care for me, and I was glad to earn an honest living; but like it! Never!"
"You say there was no one to care for you?" said Harding gently. "Had you no friends—no parents?"