Part 25 (1/2)
She was a little shy when she arrived. Laverick had left special orders downstairs, and she was brought up into his sitting-room immediately. She was very quietly dressed except for her hat, which was large and wavy. He found it becoming, but he knew enough to understand that her clothes were very simple and very inexpensive, and he was conscious of being curiously glad of the fact.
”I am afraid,” she said timidly, with a glance at his evening attire, ”that we must go somewhere very quiet. You see, I have only one evening gown and I couldn't wear that. There wouldn't be time to change afterwards. Besides, one's clothes do get so knocked about in the dressing-rooms.”
”There are heaps of places we can go to,” he a.s.sured her pleasantly.
”Of course you can't, dress for the evening when you have to go on to work, but you must remember that there are a good many other smart young ladies in the same position. I had to change because I have taken a stall to see your performance. Tell me, how are you feeling now?”
”Rather lonely,” she admitted, making a pathetic little grimace.
”That is to say I have been feeling lonely,” she added softly. ”I don't now, of course.
”You are a queer little person,” he said kindly, as they went down in the lift. ”Haven't you any friends?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
”What sort of friends could I have?” she asked. ”The girls in the chorus with me are very nice, some of them, but they know so many people whom I don't, and they are always out to supper, or something of the sort.”
”And you?”
She shook her head.
”I went to one supper-party with the girl who is near me,” she said.
”I liked it very much, but they didn't ask me again.”
”I wonder why?” he remarked.
”Oh, I don't know!” she went on drearily. ”You see, I think the men who take out girls who are in the chorus, generally expect to be allowed to make love to them. At any rate, they behaved like that. Such a horrid man tried to say nice things to me and I didn't like it a bit. So they left me alone afterwards. The girl I lived with and her mother are quite nice, and they have a few friends we go to see sometimes on Sunday or holidays. It's dull, though, very dull, especially now they're away.”
”What on earth made you think of going on the stage at all?” he asked.
”What could one do?” she answered. ”My mother's money died with her--she had only an annuity--and my stepfather, who had promised to look after me, lost all his money and died quite suddenly. Arthur was in a stockbroker's office and he couldn't save anything. My only friend was my old music-master, and he had given up teaching and was director of the orchestra at the Universal. All he could do for me was to get me a place in the chorus. I have been there ever since.
They keep on promising me a little part but I never get it. It's always like that in theatres. You have to be a favorite of the manager's, for some reason or other, or you never get your chance unless you are unusually lucky.”
”I don't know much about theatres,” he admitted. ”I am afraid I am rather a stupid person. When I can get away from work I go into the country and play cricket or golf, or anything that's going.
When I am up in town, I am generally content with looking up a few friends, or playing bridge at the club. I never have been a theatre-goer.
”I wonder,” she asked, as they seated themselves at a small round table in the restaurant which he had chosen,--”I wonder why every now and then you look so serious.”
”I didn't know that I did,” he answered. ”We've had thundering hard times lately in business, though. I suppose that makes a man look thoughtful.”
”Poor Mr. Laverick,” she murmured softly. ”Are things any better now?”
”Much better.”
”Then you have nothing really to bother you?” she persisted.
”I suppose we all have something,” he replied, suddenly grave.
”Why do you ask that?”