By the time darkness fell solitude had become unendurable. She did not know a single person in London whom she could visit, so resolved to go forth into the open streets. Even to see strangers passing and repassing would be better than the companionship of her own haunting memories.

She wandered around aimlessly, half-confused and somewhat entertained by her first contact with busy London after nightfall. She had soon strolled down Victoria Street, and crossed Westminster Bridge, and was amid the activity of the populous and poor south side of the Thames.

After a while, the sight of a noisy flaring street-market in full swing, reminded her that she must make some purchases if she wanted dinner on the morrow. Accordingly—after commencing operations by buying a capacious wicker marketing-basket, in emulation of the busy purchasers who were evidently experienced housewives—she set about considering her next day's menu.

Despite her quiet demeanour, she attracted a great deal of notice. Many heads were turned to gaze after her; nudgings and whisperings heralded her approach. She disliked this attention, and unaware that her face, apart from its arresting beauty, still bore traces of the emotional anguish she had so recently passed through, put it all down to her attire. She could not fail to see that her costume—albeit the simplest in her late wardrobe—was of an entirely different stamp to that worn by her surrounding sister-women, and resolved on the morrow to get a really cheap skirt and blouse for such occasions. That night, the purchase of food required all her thought.

All went off well, save at the butcher's. There she considered she made a fool of herself! Although it was Monday night, each shop of this description was surrounded by a crowd of carnivorous humanity. "Buy, buy, buy!" the salesman was shouting encouragingly. "Here's a lovely little joint. Walk up and look—no call to buy. Prime beef. Buy, buy, buy! Walk up, people, walk up!"

At length Evarne followed this advice, and did "walk up." The counter outside the shop consisted of a series of divisions marked by numbers ranging from four to ten, and each containing a mass of smallish portions of meat.

Those in number ten partition looked less dried and utterly repulsive than the rest, so, deciding on a tiny piece, the girl daintily touched it with the tip of her finger and inquired its price.

"Tenpence," shouted the noisy butcher, darting away to attend to another customer.

Evarne considered that was far too dear for such a wee portion. She wasn't going to be cheated because she was nicely dressed; she just wouldn't have that piece! Settling upon a thin chop, she once again made business-like inquiries concerning its price. Strange! This was even smaller than her first choice, yet it was tenpence likewise.

This was really puzzling. Ah! Perhaps it was tenpence a piece, regardless of size. It didn't seem likely, but if so, she would see that she got her money's worth, and lifting up the largest portion of all she once more succeeded in attracting the butcher's attention.

"How much is this bit, then?" she inquired.

The unkind butcher man actually got rude. "Lor' love yer, can't yer 'ear me a-telling yer it's tenpence, and ain't it printed plain enough?"

Evarne was affronted by this unaccustomed disrespect.

"I'll take this piece, then," she announced with the air of a duchess, whereupon the man, in no ways abashed, promptly flung it out of sight under a row of hanging joints, into the interior of the shop.

Evarne remained stationary.

"Walk inside, miss," cried the man, as the crowd jostled, and others claimed his attention.

The girl obeyed. In its turn her choice was put on the scales.

"Thirteen ounces, sevenpence-halfpenny," cried the weigher, wrapping it up with all speed in a bit of newspaper and handing it over.

Only then did it dawn on Evarne that this universal price of tenpence meant nothing more nor less than tenpence a pound, and thus the mystery was explained! Until recently she would have laughed merrily over such an incident, but now all life was the colour of tragedy. She saw in this absurd little incident only an allegory of her all-round practical ignorance, her incapacity, her sordid position, and the general misery and humiliation of her probable future. She returned home weary and dejected, and that night likewise soaked her pillow with tears.

She breakfasted in bed, then dressed and went out to get a newspaper to study the list of situations vacant. Buying two or three she inquired the way to the nearest public gardens. The policeman directed her to Hyde Park, and ere long she was seated facing the Row, idly watching the equestrians as they cantered past.

How cheerful, how light-hearted, they all seemed!

People on foot, even though richly clad, often looked discontented and ill-natured. Those driving in the finest of motors, or the most splendid of carriages, with prancing horses and all outward tokens of luxury, might appear dreadfully bored with existence; but one and all who were mounted upon these well-groomed steeds on this fresh spring morning appeared to radiate health and happiness as they passed.

It was scarcely a kind Fate that brought Evarne to this spot, with the very papers in her hand in which she hoped to find the printed announcement of some quiet little corner in the labour market into which she might creep to earn mere bread and cheese. She looked with eyes that were frankly envious upon the riders. How unfair it seemed that some people should have so much money and others none at all unless they either slaved or sinned.

Had she been plunged into poverty with Morris still true—still loving her—she could have faced the turn of Fortune's wheel with a stout heart and a cheery smile. But the stroke that had been dealt to her affections seemed to have crushed her very spirit.

Nor had she any, save her own moral resources, upon which to lean for support. This would have seemed a period when the glorious and elevating influence of Socrates should have had power to lift her into lofty realms of philosophical resignation. But for the greatest of her griefs, the most gnawing, the most unendurable, the teacher was worse than useless. Scant comfort does he give to those whose love is unhappy. On the contrary, his words, his ideas, as they had been interpreted by Evarne, merely served to gall the wound, and she dared not dwell upon them.

She did not open her papers, but sat watching the passing throng. She smiled as two little girls came galloping by at full speed. They rode astride, and a groom led the pony of the youngest by a leading-rein. The hats of both tiny maidens had blown back, their flying curls rose and fell, their faces were flushed bright pink with excitement and delight. Next a young woman rode past at a walking pace. By her side was a man. She too looked radiantly happy, but it was not the exhilaration of exercise that had brought that glad light into her eyes. Evarne looked after them sympathetically. Although her own story had ended in destruction and misery, she still found a pair of earnest young lovers the most interesting—the most attractive—sight in the world.

Numbers of elderly rotund gentlemen trotted along. For them the morning ride was but a doctor's prescription—still, they took it with a cheerful countenance—this delightful recipe! Then passed two women, both evidently over fifty; they still possessed elegant and slender figures, shown off by immaculate habits. They were mounted on magnificent horses—lithe, powerful, big—horses fit to carry heavy men, and to whom the weight of these slight women must have been a mere nothing. Evarne imagined that these two riders were wealthy maiden sisters—the great ladies of some country district—who came to London just for the season. She fancied they had lived side by side in state and dignity from infancy upwards, and that there had never been a hero in the story of either of their lives.

Immediately after them came a golden-haired damsel—gay, dÉbonnaire, handsome—but marred by an irrefutable touch of vulgarity. Her fine form and shady morals had gone to make her a prosperous career! Her life had never been without a hero. Next came a youthful and highborn mother, cantering easily, looking down with smiling care and pride upon the gallant little son and heir who rode so manfully beside her on a shaggy white pony. Ah! there was life, happiness, health, wealth, love—everything! But she must waste no more time. Moving to a less prominent seat she opened her papers.

Doubtless if Evarne had been an artistic genius she would have declined to abandon entirely the pursuit of art. As it was, knowing her own incompetence, she at once hopelessly renounced all ideas of art as a profession. What then offered itself? If she had happened to possess a knowledge of shorthand there were many openings, but then she didn't happen to, so that was no use! A smart girl about eighteen was wanted to assist in a grill-room and make herself generally useful. A stifling grill-room! Horrible! Some bakers required a young lady as bookkeeper and to assist in shop. Arithmetic had never been her strong point. A barmaid was wanted. Heaven forbid! Another lady was required to push the boot trade. "Pushing" anything was also not her strong point.

The "C's" were all cashiers and clerks. Arithmetic and shorthand again. Useless! Oh, there was also a demand for cooks. Well, she could boil eggs and potatoes, and make toast, but that was hardly sufficient. Drapery establishments required ladies for various departments. That was decidedly the most promising so far. She would write to some of these. Dressmakers wanted hands, assistants, improvers and apprentices. Oh dear, dear! Several hotels wanted manageresses or housekeepers, and an infirmary required a female lunatic attendant. It was terribly disheartening work. Lady canvassers—that again required the gift of being pushing. Laundry-managers—mantle-machinists—milliners—servants. There ended the choice. Appalling!

However, she proceeded to answer a few of the advertisements, when the idea came to consult Mrs. Burling. The landlady was a practical working-woman, and therefore perhaps the very best possible adviser.

So Evarne to a certain extent became confidential. What did Mrs. Burling think was the easiest way of earning a livelihood for a girl who had not been taught any profession, and who, owing to deaths and unexpected losses, found herself obliged to earn money right away?

Without a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Burling suggested the stage. This was not unnatural, considering that the worthy matron spent her days waiting hand and foot upon plain, commonplace women and inane men, who, by that means, contrived to lead leisured lives. That was the one and only trade, business or profession she knew of that seemed to call for neither brains, industry, previous preparation, nor—in her opinion—any particular talent or qualification whatsoever.

"I do assure you, miss," she went on, "I've 'ad ladies and gents 'ere earning good money, who would 'ave been in the work'ouse if they wasn't in the profession."

Evarne considered. She was blankly ignorant of everything connected with life behind the scenes. True, she had met several so-called "actresses" in the society of Morris's friends, but these ladies never seemed to be acting, so she could not consider that they represented the genuine article. She had a vague idea—gleaned from she scarce knew where—that the men of the dramatic world were all vulgar and vain and familiar and inclined to drink, unless, on the other hand, they were popular, fascinating and romantic; while the women were jealous, rather rowdy, and overdressed, until those upper ranks were reached wherein they figured on picture postcards, when they were models of every public and domestic virtue. Still, to the girl's imagination, a stage life certainly seemed far more bearable than the vision of herself measuring out lace and ribbon from morn to eve; or serving round grilled chops; or fighting with lunatics.

"I really think I shall try that," she announced at length; "but I'm dreadfully ignorant about how to get a post. Does one go to the theatres, or write to the leading actors, or the managers, or what?"

"There's all sorts of ways," declared Mrs. Burling. "For one thing, you must 'ave a good photo of yourself to send round. What 'ave you got?"

Evarne confessed that she had nothing.

"Then you must 'ave one took, and 'ave sticky-backs made from it."

"Sticky-backs?"

"Yes, fifty a shilling. Don't you know 'em? I've got some stuck in my visitors' book. I'll get it, and let you see."

She returned in due course and presented the volume.

"I've got a message for you," she went on. "I jist mentioned to the ladies and gents in the sitting-room, when I went in to git the book, what I wanted it for, and when they 'eard you'd never bin on the stage and was thinking of starting, they sent up an invite that if you'd take supper with 'em when they return from the 'all this evening, they'd be very 'appy to give you some advice."

"Oh, that is kind of them," declared Evarne with alacrity. "Will you tell them I'll be very pleased to accept?"

Mrs. Burling took her departure, and the girl amused herself by studying the visitors' book. Clearly, no praise of the worthy landlady was deemed too exaggerated, and quite often tactful self-advertisements had been unblushingly inserted by the writers. Evarne studied the method by which it was achieved, with a view to future use. Thus "Wally Wentworth, Mrs. Wally Wentworth and Miss Arundale Sutherland, on highly successful return visit with sketch, 'The Perils of the Dark,' stopped here, and found complete satisfaction with both cooking and accommodation." Very ingenious!

Another, a gentleman whose jolly countenance was preserved to future ages through the medium of a "sticky-back," declared—

"Owing to being braced up by Mother Burling's high-class cookery, sang 'Cats a-walking on the tiles' and 'Lazy Lily's Lullaby' as never before! Brought down the house!"

"The Giggling Coon Girls" were also full of praises of Mrs. Burling, but did not forget to add that at the music hall they were "encored nightly."

Evarne was quite carried away by the childish self-complacency, the light-hearted tone of gaiety that pervaded this book, and began to wax quite enthusiastic over the idea of going on the stage herself. Perhaps she would be a great success, and become famous, and earn any amount of money. Then Morris, of course, would hear of her triumphs, and then——But she stayed these fairy visions with a stern hand as soon as Morris appeared in them. The pain grew too cruel. Nothing could ever undo the past.

She wondered if she could act well. She had never had any ambition in that direction, and so had never tried, not even as an amateur. But surely anyone could learn to undertake small parts quite easily. She did not expect to be called upon to play "Juliet" or "Pauline Deschapelles" immediately.

The hours passed. She found an old novelette in a drawer, and occupied her time in reading the rubbish, until a scream of laughter, the bang of a door and a general sense of uproar, proclaimed that the "sketch party" had returned from its evening labours. A few minutes later a tap came on the door, and in response to the injunction to "Come in," a tall, slender girl, with faint traces of "make-up" still clinging around her eyes, appeared on the threshold.

"We've come back, Miss Stornway," she announced in a friendly manner, "and I've come up to bring you down to have a bit of supper with us as arranged."

Willingly enough Evarne went downstairs. The meal was laid in readiness in the sitting-room, where two men and a buxom middle-aged female, all lounging around waiting for the first course to appear, seemed to fill the already overfurnished place to repletion.

The girl who had run up to conduct the guest downstairs now undertook the task of effecting a general introduction.

"This is Mr. Hal Cuthbert, the manager of our 'Fun in the Hayfield' sketch company," she commenced, indicating the elder of the two men. "This is Mrs. Hal Cuthbert." The lady in question bowed so deliberately and graciously that Evarne felt constrained to solemnly return the formal salutation. "This is Mr. Bertie Anderson." Here the girl exchanged smiles with her acquaintance at the hall. "My name is Margaret Macclesfield, and you are Miss Stornway, so now we all know one another."

Everyone hereupon started to speak at once, but Mrs. Burling appearing with a dish of soused mackerel, all subsided for a moment, took their seats, and the little meal commenced.

Very soon Evarne arrived at the conclusion that if this party was typical of theatrical ladies and gentlemen, she had been vastly mistaken in her estimate of such. They were evidently not unlike ordinary human beings, only rather jollier. They were very lively, very light-hearted, easily amused at not remarkably brilliant witticisms, whether the product of their own genius or that of their companions. They were, moreover, exceedingly frank and open, telling her all about themselves, their whole history and that of their respective families. They waxed enthusiastic on their past dramatic successes and their future hopes—future fears they seemed not to possess. Altogether Evarne quite forgot herself, and enjoyed the chatter after her period of involuntary solitude. It was not until the meal was over, and tobacco fumes filled the air, that the subject of her future on the stage was mooted.

But this little band of professionals was far less sanguine and encouraging than Mrs. Burling had been.

Mr. Hal Cuthbert opened the debate.

"It's a dreadfully overcrowded profession you are thinking of embarking on, Miss Stornway, and unless you have influence or money, even talent has a hard fight."

"I have no influence, and very little money, and I don't really know that I've got any special talent," declared this applicant for stage honours, making no attempt to conceal the true state of affairs.

Mr. Cuthbert shook his head portentously.

"That is not a very hopeful prospect," he declared. "Haven't you got a voice? There's a piano yonder. Let's hear what you can do."

Evarne in her turn shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't sing," she said regretfully. "I've never had my voice trained at all."

A momentary silence seized the party.

"Perhaps you can dance?" suggested Margaret Macclesfield, hopefully.

"Only ordinary ballroom dances."

"That's no go," and a silence still more melancholy, more profound, held sway.

"There's no place for you on the halls, then. Perhaps you'd do all right in legitimate drama. Can you recite something?"

"I'm afraid I don't know anything dramatic," Evarne was obliged to confess, her cheeks growing pinker. "I don't know much poetry at all, and what I have learnt from time to time are only pretty little bits that have taken my fancy."

"Dear me——" Mr. Cuthbert was recommencing, when his wife broke in—

"Don't you do it, my dear. It's a dreadful profession for them as haven't got the gifts. It's a grinding, killing business. I'd as soon see a girl of mine in her grave."

"The old lady isn't far wrong," agreed Mr. Cuthbert. "You take my advice, Miss Stornway, and try something else."

"But," declared Evarne despairingly, "whatever I tried it would be just the same. I—I'm not properly qualified for anything. It's not my fault, but there it is! I didn't think of the stage when I found I'd got to earn my own living, but now it has been suggested to me I feel sure I stand a better chance of earning money quickly that way than any other."

"You've got a real beautiful face, if you don't mind my being personal," said Margaret. "Perhaps you might get a thinking part, right enough—or there's pantomime. You're tall, aren't you? If you've got good legs and a fine figure——What's your waist?"

Yet once again Evarne was compelled to shake her head apologetically.

"I'm afraid——" she started, then stopped abruptly. However, frankness seemed to prevail here, so she continued after an imperceptible pause. "I don't think I've got what you mean by a fine figure. I need very careful and special dressing to look really nice. You see, I don't wear corsets, and so——"

"My dear!" interrupted both ladies simultaneously, "how can you manage without?"

"Well, I was brought up to it," explained the girl hastily.

"I should feel as if I'd got no backbone."

"I couldn't keep up. I should flop."

"But you can wear some now if you like."

"That's exactly what I can't do. I tried once, quite seriously, and it made me ill—really ill—and I don't suppose it gets any easier to change one's habits as one gets older."

Mrs. Cuthbert flourished her hands despairingly.

"It's no go, my dear. Put the idea of the stage out of your head at once. No voice, no talents, no experience, no money, and no waist!"

A general cry of expostulation greeted this rather cruel rÉsumÉ of poor Evarne's deficiencies.

"You've got a lovely face anyway, my dear," said Mr. Hal, "and you look to have a nice figure, whether you have really or not, if I may say as much. I think the old lady's advice is good, but you mustn't let your feelings be hurt."

"That's all right," declared the girl stoutly. "It's only too good of you to trouble about me at all, and you mustn't think me either vain or ungrateful if I say that I am still resolved to try my luck. I believe I could act, and I've never yet found my personal appearance a disadvantage to me; I expect that, even without corsets, I can manage to look as well as the average girl. I must start to earn money at once, that's sadly certain. I've been thinking over every other means, and none of them seem suitable, so if you would end up your kindness by giving me some hints as to how to get work on the stage at once I shall be infinitely obliged."

Their good-nature in no way disturbed by their unanimous judgment being thus flouted, they gave her advice as best they could. Like Mrs. Burling, they declared it was imperative she should have some photos of herself to send round. Then she must go to agents, and answer advertisements in the theatrical papers, and—well, really it was hard to say, engagements came somehow—if any of them got a chance they would certainly put in a word for her.

For this she was duly grateful, and a little later the party broke up.