“I don’t think it matters much where we go,” said Joyce. “Life is just the same.”
“I suppose it is, if you moon around by yourself. Why don’t you get a pal?”
“Masculine or feminine?” asked Joyce; for there was as much pairing in the company as in the Ark.
“Whichever you please. You pays—no you don’t—you takes your choice here without paying your money. But take my tip and keep clear of women. You never know when they ’ll turn round and scratch you—like cats. After all, what can you expect of ’em? I ’ve done with ’em all long ago.”
“What about the sea-sick girls to-day?”
“I would n’t touch any of ’em with a ten-foot pole,” replied the misogynist, with bitter scorn. “I never was in an engagement where there was such an inferior lot of ladies. I don’t know where the management picked them up. And to think of the number of nice girls in London simply starving for work.”
“They seem right enough,” said Joyce, indifferently.
“Gad! You should have been with me in ‘Mother Goose’ at Leeds this winter. I was playing one of the men in the moon—they noticed me from the front. You should have seen the slap-up lot we had there. What kind of shop were you in for the winter?”
“I was in another walk of life,” replied Joyce, with a curl of his lips.
At that moment the call-boy’s voice was heard in the passages: “Beginners for the first act;” and then he appeared himself at the door.