I

Having taken the plunge, Miss Trant found herself at once in another world. It was, so far, chiefly a world of tea and chops and telegrams. The tea and chops came from her Rawsley landlady, who was very interested, very sympathetic, but unpunctual with meals. It was her habit to offer Miss Trant odd cups of tea the moment she saw her coming in, whatever the hour; and the meals, when they did arrive, seemed to be always a chop⁠—a “nice chop,” which apparently meant one that was burnt on the outside and quite raw in the interior. “Sit you down and ’ave a cup o’ tea, Miss Trant, and I’ll do you a nice chop,” this was the good lady’s formula. Fortunately, Miss Trant was hardly ever hungry that first week. Perhaps it was the telegrams that took away her appetite. Although the Trants had for generations made a trade, as it were, out of alarms and excursions, a telegram had still been something of an event at Hitherton, and even at the Old Hall the sight of a little brown envelope called up visions of catastrophe. But now the little brown envelopes fell in showers. The telegram was apparently the common method of communication in this extraordinary world, where everybody seemed to be “wiring” everybody else. Prompted by Jimmy Nunn, armed with the current number of The Stage, she “wired” the proprietors of Winter Gardens, Alfresco Pavilions, Kursaals, Chalets, and Playhouses, mostly in places she had never heard of before, and even such people as printers and costumiers had to be “wired” too; and all these wires promptly produced other wires, some of them so compressed that they might as well have been in cipher, and others of a staggering length and fluency, like strange heads coming round the door and screaming at the top of their voices at her. Of all the others, only Mr. Oakroyd, who frequently trotted round to the Post Office for her, shared her amazement at all this wiring. “Eh!⁠—we’re keeping all t’telegraph lads i’ t’ country on t’run,” he would cry. “It’s war ner workin’ for a bookie.” The waste of money appalled him, but he could not help being delighted by the dash and importance of it all. At the Post Office he soon became a familiar figure. “If I bring yer onny more,” he would tell them, “happen you’ll be declaring a divvy this year”; and the three young women behind the counter would nod and say, brightly, if vaguely: “That’s right”; and they were all very friendly.

Living in such a world of telegraphy, Miss Trant felt she had no right to sit down and enjoy a meal at her leisure. She did sit down⁠—though she always felt she ought to be standing up⁠—but she ate her chops as hastily and perfunctorily as her landlady had cooked them. The latter, we may say, proffered a brief sketch of a dinner, and Miss Trant, in her turn, replied with a brief sketch of a diner. It was only late in the evening, when there were no more “dates” to be considered and no more problems to be instantly solved, that she achieved any real sustenance. This she did by drinking a large cup of cocoa (a weakness of hers) and munching her way through innumerable buttered Digestive biscuits while staring at a book. The book was Barlasch of the Guard, borrowed on the payment of twopence and a deposit of half a crown from the little stationer’s in the marketplace, and very slow the story seemed too, after all the telegrams. She was beginning to read these things with the air of an old soldier listening to a fellow veteran only a year or two older than herself.

The problems she had to solve were numerous and for the most part fantastic. One of the most reasonable was that of costumes. Like many other concert parties, the late Dinky Doos had made a practice of giving the first part of their entertainment in fancy pierrot costume and the second half in evening dress. The Good Companions had decided to continue this practice, though two members of the party had protested against it. Mr. Jerningham had objected because he delighted himself in evening dress, which he would have worn in the morning if he could have done so. Mr. Joe Brundit objected because he always had trouble with his dress collars⁠—“They fairly saw my head off some nights,” he grumbled⁠—and was very gloomy about laundries. These gentlemen were allowed to argue with one another, but otherwise no notice was taken of them. Miss Trant discovered, however, that she disliked the pierrot costumes worn by the three women. They were cheap, faded, cottony things, and must be replaced at once. There popped up in Miss Trant, who had always dressed herself very quietly, partly because she had been timid and partly because she really thought a quiet style suited her, a long-hidden lover of the gaudy and fantastic in clothes, and this dashing creature hurried off in the car to the nearest large town and showed her shimmering cascades of silk, plunged her into orgies of apple-green and scarlet and lilac and jade, called down a rain of multicoloured frills and tassels and pompoms. And she found two allies. Mrs. Joe was useless, simply a born knitter and nothing more. Nor was Susie much better, for though her taste was reasonably good (Mrs. Joe’s was vile), she was much too impatient and not at all clever with her fingers, as she readily admitted herself. This was a disappointment to Miss Trant, with whom Susie was already a favourite. It was the fluffy Elsie, the one she liked least so far, who proved herself to be a treasure in this matter of costumes. Elsie had a passion for clothes; she had good taste; she could design, cut out, and sew like a professional tailor and needlewoman. She also had⁠—as Susie said⁠—a nose for clever, cheap dressmakers, and it was she who brought in the second ally, Miss Thong. There can be no doubt that Miss Thong really was a clever, cheap dressmaker and that she worked miracles for them those few days, but that is not the reason why she deserves a little space to herself. We must glance at Miss Thong because the image of her haunted Miss Trant at odd moments throughout that winter. Miss Thong has a part in the homely epic; it is a very tiny part⁠—no more than that of a whispering ghost⁠—but we cannot say it has no significance. Miss Trant remembers her to this very day.

She went with Elsie, who knew the way. They walked the length of an unusually monotonous street of little brick houses, which ended in some waste ground, a melancholy muddle of worn turf, clayey holes, wire-netting, and ramshackle fowl-houses made out of orange boxes, and a few dirty and listless hens. The last house on the left was detached from the row, but was yet so close to it, so obviously still a part of it, that Miss Trant felt that this house had just been sawn off, as if it were the crust of a long loaf. It looked like a slice too, for it was severely rectangular and only one room in breadth, being indeed the very narrowest house she had ever seen. It was not old; it was not dingy; it was newish, had a bright glazed look, and was immediately depressing. There were two little brass plates on the door; one said Midland Guardian and Widows Fire and Life Assurance and the other whispered Miss Thong⁠—Dressmaker. The door was opened to them by the Midland Guardian, who had watery eyes, a drooping grey moustache, carpet slippers, and a coat and waistcoat that had seen far too much gravy and egg. Yes, yes, his daughter was in, and they could see her; but she was busy; she was always busy these days, always in great demand; and she wasn’t too strong, not really strong enough for all the work that came. One of these days, he told them as they went into the tiny sitting-room, he would have to put his foot down, the girl was doing too much. And he shuffled out, to tell her they were there. “I know the sort of foot he’ll put down,” Elsie whispered. “I’ll bet she keeps him going all right. If he makes enough out of his insurance to keep him in whisky, I’d be surprised. Silly old blighter! But she isn’t strong, either. She’s a queer little thing.”

She was a queer little thing; no older than Miss Trant herself, perhaps, but very small and crooked, with thin hair pathetically bobbed, hollow cheeks, and a long nose that seemed to flush in a most unhappy manner. Her eyes were bright enough but she had hardly any eyelashes and the lids were slightly reddened. Perhaps she was consumptive. She looked as if she might have anything and everything wrong with that frail body of hers. It seemed as if one winter’s night would extinguish her forever. Nevertheless, as soon as she saw Elsie, her face lit up and she plunged at once into a gasping prattle that never stopped all the way up to the front room upstairs that was her workroom. When she learned that the troupe was to be reformed under the direction of Miss Trant, she was genuinely delighted, almost in an ecstasy. She insisted upon telling Miss Trant all about the two performances of the Dinky Doos she had seen when they had been giving the show the first week.

“It was such a treat to me, you can’t imagine,” she gasped. “And then when Miss Longstaff came here⁠—and I’d seen her only two nights before, singing and dancing there and looking prettier than a picture⁠—well, well, it was a surprise! I stared at her, couldn’t believe my own eyes! I must have looked a sketch.” Here Miss Thong laughed heartily at herself. “Didn’t you think I did, Miss Longstaff? Never mind, so did you, when you came on as that little girl in the choir. That was a skit, that was. Laugh!⁠—you ought to have heard me. And that Mr. Nunn⁠—he’s a comic, if you like. The way he went on telling everybody they was late! And then betting five pounds with that other one who was it?⁠—that fine sing‑ger⁠—yes, that’s him⁠—Mr. Brundit⁠—oh, that was good! And that Miss Susie Dean! Isn’t she a card? The way she took people off! Really enjoying herself, she was, you could tell just by looking at her. So pretty too! And what high spirits! Now don’t you go and be jealous, Miss Longstaff, because I’ll say the same for you. I’m not going to quarrel with the prettiest customer I’ve got, and a real famous actress too⁠—no, no, no!” And Miss Thong cocked her head on one side, looked very arch and very cunning at one and the same time, and then laughed at herself so heartily that she burst into a fit of coughing and hastily put a handkerchief to her mouth.

Miss Trant stared out of the window a minute, then said: “I’m glad you enjoyed the show so much, Miss Thong. At least, I imagine you did,” she added, with a smile.

“I haven’t enjoyed anything so much, I don’t know when,” cried Miss Thong. “I went twice⁠—did I tell you? It’s not usual for me to go even once, but twice⁠—then it’s got to be extra special. I said to Pa⁠—he doesn’t like me going out much, you know⁠—but I said to him ‘I know I’m very busy,’ I said, ‘and I know it costs money. But I must go again,’ I said, ‘because they’re so good they’ve taken me right out of myself, what with their sing‑ging and lovely dancing and their comics and all,’ I said. And when I heard they’d gone and broken up⁠—oh, the news soon gets round in Rawsley!⁠—well, I could have sat down and cried. And then Miss Longstaff told me how they’d been treated, Miss What’s it⁠—Miss Trant, I beg your pardon. ‘What a shame!’ I said. There I’d been sitting here, thinking how lovely they looked and trying to hum some of the songs and telling myself they hadn’t a care in the world, and there they were all feeling as miserable as anything, not knowing where to look, you might say, and me here with my nice little business. And that only made me feel more miserable. You know how you can get sometimes?” And Miss Thong laughed again. “But to think that you’re beginning all over again!”

“And going to be better,” said Elsie. “We’ve got two good new men.”

“Just fancy!” cried Miss Thong delightedly. “It just shows you, doesn’t it? You never know what’s waiting round the corner, as I tell Pa. He’ll never believe in anything. Oh, these business men, I say! He never would believe we’d get this house. But here we are. And isn’t it nice here, Miss Trant?” She almost pushed them both over to the window with her. They looked out at the bald turf, the half-bricks and tin cans, the huddle of box lids and wire netting and hens.

“Very nice,” said Miss Trant. Then, with an effort: “Very nice indeed.”

“Isn’t it?” cried Miss Thong. “It’s so open. You’re in the town and yet not in it, I say. Especially up here, looking right out. That’s where all the boys down the street play⁠—cricket and football⁠—and though they’re a bit noisy, I don’t mind it⁠—quite cheers you up to see them running about and hear them shouting. It’s a bit of life, isn’t it? I’m glad you think it’s nice here. It’s made such a difference to me having such a lookout. What with this house and the dressmaking doing so well, they’ll be telling me soon I’m getting above myself. Perhaps I am, what with actresses coming too, eh, Miss Longstaff? Somebody said to me, the other day, when I told them, they said ‘You’ll be going on the stage yourself next, Miss Thong.’ ‘And a fine sketch I’d look!’ I said.” Here Miss Thong laughed and coughed again, and Elsie laughed a little too, and Miss Trant tried to laugh, but found it easier to turn away and undo the parcels they had brought with them.

They told her what they wanted, and she frowned and gasped out questions and nodded excitedly and busied herself clearing the worktable. “There, you can go away,” she cried to the vanishing pieces of material, “and so can you, and you, and you. Coat and skirt⁠—blue serge and braid⁠—for Mrs. Moxon⁠—that’s the last of you for a bit and I don’t care if you are promised. Semi-evening for Miss Abbey⁠—wants it for whist-drives⁠—and you’ll have to wait. Yes, I’ll do it for you, Miss Trant, Miss Longstaff, but don’t⁠—oh, don’t⁠—breathe a word to anyone in Rawsley I’m doing it, or my custom’s gone! You see, I’ve promised and promised and better promised⁠—and they come round and ask and ask⁠—just as if a girl had twelve pairs of hands. But I’ll do it for you. I don’t care. They can all wait, that’s what I say.” The little crooked creature grasped the edge of her table, stood as erect as she could, and, with cheeks paler than ever but with her great nose flushing triumphantly, she seemed to defy a host of clamouring Moxons and Abbeys, coats and skirts and semi-evenings. “So there you are,” she cried. “If I’ve to lock myself in this room, give out I’m ill again, I’ll do it. Let’s have a bit of life, I say. Now tell me what you want and show me what you’ve got.”

“We want a harlequin effect in some of the dresses,” said Elsie. “We’ve got all sorts of remnants and lovely odd bits. Look here. Sateens and light silks and crêpe de Chine and velvet.” And the next minute, the worktable had disappeared, and in its place was a crazy garden of fabrics, a rainbow carnival.

“Oh, I say! O‑o‑oh!” After this first rapturous cry, Miss Thong breathed hard, quivered with delight, pressed her hands together, and stared and stared, as if her eyes had long been thirsty and could at last drink their fill. Then she fell upon the glowing heap. “Oh, look at this⁠—and this⁠—and these two together,” she babbled ecstatically. “Here’s some apricot velvet⁠—lovely cap it would make, wouldn’t it? And that old rose⁠—let me smooth it out⁠—look!⁠—put that with it⁠—wait till I get some pins⁠—hundreds of pins⁠—oh, aren’t I silly?”

“I was like that the other day,” said Miss Trant, laughing.

“I’m always like that,” said Elsie, who was indeed nearly as excited as Miss Thong. “They go to my head, I can tell you, Look at that, Miss Thong. Isn’t it lovely?”

“Isn’t it! Oh, deary dear! It’s all lovely, and I don’t know where to start or whether I’m on my head or my heels or laughing or crying, I don’t really. Now aren’t I silly?” And it certainly looked as if something dreadful would happen to Miss Thong, who was trying to laugh and cough and blow her nose and pick up some of the silks and fill her mouth with pins all at the same time. At last, however, she quietened down, the professional dressmaker taking the place of the enraptured woman, and they discussed the dresses they wanted. It was arranged that Elsie should help her when she was not wanted for rehearsal, during the remaining two days at Rawsley.

It was Wednesday evening when Miss Trant called there again. The thin little house, now besieged by the curiously melancholy dusk of autumn, that smoky blue into which the green and gold of summer has vanished, it seems, forever, looked forlorn enough, but its glazed brightness had gone and there was something cheerful and brave, a hint of the indomitable, about that lighted upstairs window. Elsie was there, looking very pink and rounded and robust by the side of Miss Thong, who in the searching gaslight seemed frailer and uglier than before, like a worn-out witch, with that great nose and her dimmed eyes peering between their reddened lids. She was obviously tired out, yet greeted Miss Trant triumphantly. Two dresses were completed.

“And Miss Longstaff’s is one of them,” she began.

“Elsie, I told you,” said that young lady.

“There now!” she cried to Miss Trant, nodding her head. “She wants me to call her Elsie. Aren’t I getting on? And it seems only a minute since I saw her on the stage. Well, then, Elsie’s is finished and it’s the loveliest thing you ever saw, Miss Trant, it really is. Do put it on, Elsie. Slip into my bedroom and put it on. Just to please me.”

After an interrogative glance at Miss Trant, Elsie nodded, went out, and returned in an incredibly short space of time an entirely different person. In that soft shimmer of blues and greens she looked almost beautiful.

“But what a lovely dress you’ve made!” cried Miss Trant with genuine enthusiasm. “It’s like a wood full of bluebells.” She turned to Miss Thong to congratulate her.

But Miss Thong’s gaze was still fastened mistily upon Elsie. Her lips were quivering a little, and her long clever hands were clutching and twisting. “Oh⁠—Miss⁠—Miss⁠—Elsie,” she faltered, moving a step or so towards her. “You do look beautiful in it. And I made it, didn’t I? And to think of you⁠—wearing it⁠—sing‑ging and dancing in it⁠—going all over⁠—thousands of people. Oh, I am silly⁠—but⁠—just to think⁠—”

Elsie put an arm about her, held her for a moment, then stooped and lightly kissed her on the cheek. “You’re not silly, you’re very clever,” she said softly. “There. Isn’t she clever, Miss Trant? We shall have to put her name on the programmes, won’t we? Dresses by Madame Thong of Rawsley.”

“Oh, go on with you,” gasped Miss Thong, dabbing at her eyes and laughing and crying. “I really must be tired. I don’t know when I’ve taken on so. You must be thinking ‘She’s a ridiculous little thing.’ Now aren’t you? Never mind, we’re all a bit silly sometimes. Best thing I can do is to put in a bit at Mrs. Moxon’s coat and skirt, that’ll bring me to my senses. Two yards of braid to put on, plenty of machining, that what I want. There now, let’s talk about the other things.”

So they settled down to talk about the other dresses and were very businesslike. It was when Miss Thong began to discuss sending them on and to ask about addresses that Miss Trant, who was moved by the thought of their leaving this little woman and never seeing her again, had an inspiration.

“Tomorrow morning, you know,” she began, “we leave for a place called Dotworth⁠—”

“That’s the three-night stand I told you about,” Elsie put in, nodding at Miss Thong.

“And then next week we go to a seaside place on the East Coast called Sandybay,” Miss Trant continued. “Now if all the dresses will be finished by about next Monday or Tuesday, why don’t you bring them yourself⁠—you needn’t carry them, you know; we can arrange about that⁠—and then you can try them on.”

“And I could see you all on the stage too, couldn’t I?” cried Miss Thong eagerly, her face lighting up.

“Of course you could. And it would be a nice little holiday for you too, after all your hard work. You could stay a day or two.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely! Going to the seaside and trying on the dresses and seeing them on the stage perhaps and hearing it all again and better than last time and⁠—oh⁠—everything!” For a moment she saw it all, fastened on it in pure rapture. Then the light died out of her face. “But I couldn’t do it, Miss Trant. Oh, I wish I could, but I really couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Oh!⁠—so many things. There’s⁠—I don’t know⁠—I couldn’t begin to think of it.”

“Of course we should pay your expenses,” said Miss Trant casually. “Naturally, when you’re working for us. It’s the usual thing, isn’t it, Elsie?”

“Done every time,” replied Elsie promptly and with a grateful glance at Miss Trant. Then she looked severely at Miss Thong. “Now you’re being really silly. I don’t believe you want to see me in my dress. You come along. I’ll get you in my digs.”

“Yes, of course, Elsie, Miss Trant, I know⁠—but⁠—oh, don’t ask me! There’s Pa. He’d never let me go, I know he wouldn’t.”

“Where is he? Is he in now? Downstairs? All right, you leave him to me,” said Elsie grimly. “If it’s only Pa that’s bothering you, I’ll soon settle Pa.”

And off she went, there and then, leaving Miss Thong⁠—as she admitted⁠—“downright flabbergasted.” It took Elsie exactly five minutes to settle Pa, and there could be no doubt⁠—as a glance at her face promptly informed them⁠—that on this question the Midland Guardian was settled once and for all.

“And didn’t he mind then?” cried Miss Thong in wonder and delight.

“Not a bit,” said Elsie, still grimly. “He liked it. And he’ll keep on liking it.”

“Well, I’ll come then. Yes, I will. I’ll work and work and get them all finished and I’ll bring them. I know there’s an excursion from here to Sandybay⁠—four days or something⁠—and that’ll make it cheaper. I don’t know how I’ll get all the dresses to the station.”

“I do,” said Elsie. “Pa will take them.”

“And I shall be able to come in and see you all for nothing, won’t I?” cried Miss Thong. “And perhaps go behind the scenes.”

“Of course! Madame Thong, dressmaker to the Good Companions,” said Elsie. “Can’t we put it in the programmes, Miss Trant?”

“We can and we will,” she replied, rising. “We must finish making the arrangements now. I’ve still got heaps and heaps of things to do. I wondered at first how I should find anything to do, but now I seem to be busy from the crack of dawn.”

“I’m sure you like it, don’t you, Miss Trant?” said Miss Thong. “It’s a bit of life, isn’t it? That’s what I feel about doing these dresses. Give me a bit of life, I say.”

And that was one of the things Miss Trant did not forget.

II

It was very exciting being at last on the move. She took with her in the car Jimmy Nunn and Mr. Oakroyd, setting off early so that these two would have an opportunity of putting the stage in order, for the hall they were using at Dotworth, known as the Olympic, was a picture theatre. The others came on later, by train. On the way, she tried to be very cool about it all, told herself that it was, of course, a most absurd frolic, but nevertheless she was very excited. And that night she would see the party⁠—her party⁠—how ridiculous that sounded!⁠—on the stage, acting before an audience, for the first time. Just before they arrived there she had to make a confession.

“You know, I feel thrilled already,” she told Jimmy.

He was rather troubled about this. “Not that I don’t understand; I do,” he said. “I don’t care if a man’s been fifty years in the business, there’s the same old thrill comes back. Opening night⁠—all of a doodah! I know. I’ve had some opening nights in my time. It’s that as much as anything that ruins a man’s digestion.”

“Isn’t yours any better?”

“Better! Worse and worse! Believe me, I’ve nearly forgotten the motions of eating. A knife and fork worries me. I ate so little at Rawsley that even the landlady complained, said it was putting her off her own feed, and her husband came to see me one night and got quite nasty about it, said their food was as good as anybody else’s, and he was tired of eating my meals cold or warmed-up and being called a glutton by his missis into the bargain. But what I wanted to say is this. Don’t expect anything here, Miss Trant.”

“What haven’t I to expect?”

“Anything at all,” he replied promptly. “The show’s not in shape yet. This Dotworth isn’t a real date. I know the place; played it once before, years ago. It’s a dud. All we’re doing, Miss Trant, is trying it on the dog.”

And Dotworth looked rather like a dog. “One of these forlorn yellow little mongrels,” Miss Trant told herself. In the faint sunlight the little town looked yellowish, and there was something forlorn about the streets through which they were passing.

The Olympic was a very small place, sandwiched between an ironmonger’s and a draper’s. On a board in front was pasted one of their new bills. There it was⁠—The Good Companions⁠—in bold lettering. The sight of it gave Miss Trant a sense of achievement that was very pleasant.

“But look at that,” groaned Jimmy, pointing, “just look at it, I ask you.”

Undoubtedly the bill was not very impressive. It suffered because underneath it was a highly coloured poster of a film. This poster showed several pairs of legs, apparently supporting the Good Companions’ bill, and underneath these legs were letters of flame that said: A Drama from the very Depths of the Soul.

“That’s what they do to you in these one-eyed holes,” said Jimmy. “You’ll have to cover that poster up, Oakroyd.”

Miss Trant had never heard of a “one-eyed hole” before, but the term kept popping up in her mind during the afternoon and early evening, when she was busy running round Dotworth, going from the station to the Olympic, from the Olympic to her hotel. Dotworth certainly was a one-eyed hole, and by the time the doors of the Olympic were opened, she was convinced that the solitary eye would not be fixed upon the Good Companions. It was not the first time she had been anxious about the size of an audience, for she had helped at charity concerts and the like at Hitherton, but she had never felt so anxious before. When she saw the doors open and people walking past them, she positively winced. But if the people went in, she was not happy about them but busy wondering if they would enjoy it. Before the curtain went up, she was able to count the audience. There were ninety-three altogether; twelve in the one-and-tenpenny seats; thirty-seven in the one-and-twopenny seats (but these included ten free passes for people exhibiting bills): and the remaining forty-four were ninepennies at the back. She tried to do a little mental arithmetic but was not successful, so she called it three pounds and reminded herself that their next three performances could only be considered dress rehearsals.

“I’m not gone on these ’ere pierrots,” she heard somebody say. “Give me pitchers.” Then, a minute later, the same voice went on: “That is so. Just what I’ve said many a time, many and many a time.” The woman cleared her throat mournfully. “Give me pitchers.”

Miss Trant felt like giving her a box on the ears. Pictures indeed! Still tingling, she sat down at the very end of one of the one-and-tenpenny rows, having agreed that for this first night she must keep in front. The great moment arrived. No footlights suddenly and beautifully illuminated the curtain, for there were no footlights. The stage was lighted from above, and now these lights were switched on and those in the body of the hall turned off. There came the thrilling sound of a gong, then the crash of a chord or two, followed by a run, on the piano. The curtain rose about a foot, hesitated, wobbled, then rose another six inches⁠—then stopped⁠—to reveal several agitated pairs of legs. There was some agonized whispering. Then a voice spoke out from the wings in desperation. “Nay,” it said, “shoo won’t budge an inch.”

There was some clapping and jeering at the back.

“Sh-sh,” cried Miss Trant fiercely, turning round.

The curtain began wobbling again: jerked up another few inches; stopped again; then suddenly ran up at full speed, presenting the audience with a splendid view of Jimmy Nunn’s back. But that gentleman was equal to the occasion. He did not run off but cooly turned round, made a face at the audience, and said: “Oh, you’re here, are you? Couldn’t make out where you’d got to. I’ll call the others. They’d like to see you.” And he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled, gave Inigo at the piano a nod, sat himself down behind the drums, and they crashed into the opening chorus. It was superbly done. Miss Trant felt as if she had just tobogganed over a chasm. She had not been so excited about anything for years.

It was very odd and amusing seeing her new friends on the stage. She had never known any professionals before, and it was quite different from watching amateurs. When you saw people you knew acting with amateur dramatic societies, they were merely themselves with parts stuck on to them: Mrs. Corvison pretended to be a maid, and Major Thompson wore a wig and butler’s clothes⁠—and that was all. But with these professionals, you lost all sight of the private personalities; they simply came to life on the stage in another sort of way; and as you watched them, you could hardly believe that you really knew them as people. Jimmy Nunn, for example, was all drollery; he had an entirely new voice, very queer and squeaky; and the man she knew who had been so worried about percentages and his digestion completely disappeared. Mr. Jerningham, whose dancing was so astonishing, became a vivid personality. Mr. Mitcham was immensely dignified and impressive, and when he was repeatedly contradicted and fooled by Jimmy and pretended to lose his temper, he seemed like an outraged ambassador. Elsie appeared to be ten years younger, and frivolity itself; though her stage personality appealed to Miss Trant rather less than her real one. Even the Brundits, whose singing interested Miss Trant less than any other part of the performance, simply because she had heard much better singing of this kind all her life, at least contrived to be imposing figures. Mrs. Joe swam down the stage like a Queen of Song, and acknowledged any applause that came her way with the air of a duchess opening a charity bazaar. And Joe, when he was busy “feeding” Jimmy, could say “Well, I’ll bet you a fiver, old man,” and produce a crumpled bit of newspaper, quite in the manner of a gentleman whose pockets are stuffed with fivers. As for Susie, who was best of all, she did not change; she was still her delightful self: but she seemed enlarged and intensified in this new atmosphere; she treated the stage as if it were her own hearthrug and the audience as if it were composed of old friends attending her birthday party. Everything she did was deliciously absurd. She sang ordinary sentimental little music-hall songs, and by letting her voice slide down and down, by catching her breath at awkward moments, by a droll flick of a glance, she turned them inside out and then tossed them away with an easy scorn. Her dancing itself was a delicate parody, a sly comment on Elsie and Jerry Jerningham. And then she contrived to give lightning sketches of all manner of people; just a phrase or two, a walk, a gesture, a grimace, and you were reminded at once of somebody solemn and ridiculous you had known; if she only had to cross the stage, she would do it in character or caricature, and you had to laugh; she was always being somebody and yet she was always Susie too, for you were always conscious of the girl herself, with her dark eyes and tilted nose, her rather square shoulders, her sturdy figure. Unlike Jimmy Nunn, she did not seem to give you a set performance; her acting was a kind of witty romping, an overflow of high spirits; and it was all essentially feminine⁠—“Aren’t they absurd, my dear?” it seemed to say; and Miss Trant, who remembered so well the times she had felt like that, but could do nothing but bottle it up, adored her. The fact that Dotworth evidently thought the girl an amateurish trifler, who ought to learn to sing a luscious ballad or redden her nose and be really funny, only stiffened Miss Trant’s allegiance and fed the flame of her enthusiasm. Oh, it had been worth it just for Susie! This girl had to go on and on, that was certain.

When the final curtain came, the applause was only halfhearted. Miss Trant stood up and clapped fiercely. There was the company, her company and her friends, who had worked so hard all the evening and the whole week before this evening; there they were, smiling⁠—for the curtain had risen again just to let them smile⁠—and these poor Dotworth creatures could only stare or go poking about for their hats. It was not fair. Miss Trant clapped harder than ever, and then, when the lights came on, there was some staring in her direction, but she did not care. At least, one Miss Trant did not care, even if the other did⁠—for now there seemed to be two of her.

There was the Miss Trant who had been growing up so quickly ever since she left Hitherton. It was this Miss Trant who had so suddenly, so recklessly, so absurdly decided to run the Concert Party, who had plunged into this shabby and adventurous world of minor theatres and had so far enjoyed every moment it had offered her, who had become passionately concerned with dates and rentals and seating and production numbers and costumes, who had already plucked out of this dingy wilderness of lodgings, makeshift theatres, and dull little towns, the fine flowers of work and comradeship and loyalty. But there still remained the Miss Trant who had lived so long at the Old Hall, Hitherton, the woman who had arrived in her middle thirties in a very different world, into which none of her new companions, except perhaps Inigo Jollifant, could ever have found their way; a world full of people who would see very little difference between travelling round with a concert party and singing in the streets. It would be idle to pretend that this Miss Trant had been banished forever almost at a moment’s notice. She was there in the background, wondering and sometimes wincing. She was ready to point out that this was all very well perhaps for a week or two’s frolic, while they were moving obscurely in little towns, but that sooner or later the two worlds must clash and then there would probably be a catastrophe in one of them. She had her hour when there came a reply from Mr. Truby of Cheltenham, the solicitor, who had had to be told something of what was happening so that he could make arrangements with the bank about forwarding money. Mr. Truby had replied that he would do his best to carry out her instructions and did not anticipate any difficulty; he was as solemnly courteous as ever and showed no trace of surprise; yet there was that in his letter which announced in effect that Mr. Truby was ready to carry out the wishes of any clients no matter how monstrous they might be, until such time as he received a medical certificate proving their insanity. And that was only a beginning. Very soon there must come a real test⁠—and what would happen then? Could this tiny fantastic army of pierrots withstand the massed forces of Hitherton? Those forces could act through the glance of amazement, the lifted eyebrows, the horrified remonstrances, of a single person; and Miss Trant was aware of the fact, though she had not the least idea who the person might be.

She had not to wait for either the test or the person. They arrived together, on the Wednesday afternoon of the following week, at Sandybay.

III

Dotworth had been a failure: they had made neither friends nor money there, and they had all been glad to leave the place. They would really make a start, they told one another, at Sandybay, which some of them knew and proclaimed to be “not a bad date.” Miss Trant had never heard of it before, but then she knew very little about the East Coast. It was certainly very pleasant after Rawsley and Dotworth, for it was a clean friendly little town, open to salt winds that as yet only had a healthy chill in them. In the mornings, when the October sun struggled through, there was a fine sparkle on the sea, the air was as crisp and sweet as an apple, and it was delightful to swing along the promenade. In the centre, the old part, Sandybay was still a fishing village, a fascinating higgledy-piggledy of boats, nets, capstans, blue jerseys, mahogany faces, and queer inns. On the outskirts, it was a residential town; it had a ring of little villas and two golf courses; and retired army officers and district commissioners abounded there, battling with weeds in the morning, trying a niblick in the afternoon, and bidding a quite unjustified Three No Trumps in the evening. In the spaces between these outskirts and the old fishing village, Sandybay was a growing but still “select” resort; and here you found the Beach Hotel, the Sandringham Boardinghouse, the Old Oak Café, the Elite Picture Theatre, Eastman’s Circulating Library, the Municipal Bandstand and Floral Gardens, and the Pier. This Pier went forward about twenty-five yards, then swelled out in a rather dropsical fashion to support a Pavilion, which looked like an overgrown and neglected greenhouse. However, it boasted a stage equipped with floodlights, a spotlight, and an excellent curtain, a grand piano and several dressing-rooms for artistes, and seating accommodation for six hundred people. After achieving this Pavilion, the Pier went on again for about a hundred yards and ended in a subdued riot of little kiosks and automatic machines, the whole dominated by the Refreshment Room, where the very red-faced men who took out monthly angling tickets could obtain a little Scotch or Draught Bass. It is perhaps worth remarking, in passing, that our friend Mr. Morton Mitcham had made the Refreshment Room his headquarters and had become a great favourite with both the staff (one blonde and one brunette) and the patrons, who included in their number two gentlemen who were nearly sure⁠—after some prompting⁠—that they had seen Mr. Mitcham before, one in Singapore in Nought Three, the other in Sydney in Nought Eight. Mr. Mitcham himself declared more than once that he remembered them both very well, and they were all very happy together.

It was the manager of the Pier who had engaged the Good Companions (on a sixty percent basis, with a thirty-pound guarantee), for Sandybay was trying to extend its season until the end of October and had promised its visitors a “First-class Concert Party every week in the Pier Pavilion” throughout the month. The fact that the Good Companions had found it ridiculously easy to find lodgings (with sitting-rooms wildly thrown in) suggested there had not been any rush of belated holidaymakers during this second week of October. And so far, that is, on Monday and Tuesday evenings, the attendances had been poor. Jimmy Nunn said there were plenty of people in the town, enough to give them a full house every night, but that they had no inclination to walk out to the Pier Pavilion. Miss Trant agreed with him. The town was bright enough in the morning, lit by the huge flickering gem of the sea, but by teatime this brightness had faded, the waters were ghostly, the waves came lapping in melancholy, and the evening, twice accompanied by a drizzle of rain, was forlorn indeed, and there was nothing more forlorn in it than the echoing length of the Pier. A cosy theatre of the old-fashioned kind, all gilt and crimson plush, stuffy and glittering, would have been proof against such evenings, but this Pavilion, like nothing but a huge decayed conservatory, was helpless before the mourning mystery of the autumnal darkness and the moan of the sea. But there was time yet, they told one another; the end of the week was always better than the beginning.

Miss Trant had had an early lunch on this Wednesday so that she could see what was happening in the Pavilion, where Mr. Oakroyd, assisted by Joe (who was not a bad hand with a paint brush), was making a little set for a new production-number-cum-sketch devised by Jimmy Nunn. This set showed the exterior of a cottage and consisted of a practicable door and window and a few square feet of painted canvas at each side. Mr. Oakroyd and Joe had nearly finished and were now sitting in their shirtsleeves triumphantly refreshing themselves with a bottle of beer and large sandwiches. Inigo and Jimmy Nunn were at the piano, trying over a new song. Miss Trant walked through the auditorium and then stopped in the centre gangway near the end of the third row of front seats, to examine the set, which was propped up, drying, at one side of the stage. She had just congratulated the two craftsmen, who were very proud of themselves, and was thinking what fun it was to be able to have things like that made, merely to have an excuse to return happily to the play of the nursery, when the Pavilion attendant, a man with one eye and a long melancholy face, came up to her and said: “There’s a lady askin’ for yer, Miss Trant.”

“Who is it?” She was puzzled.

“I dunno, Miss,” he replied, looking at her sadly with his single eye. “She wouldn’t give no name.”

“Well, ask her to come in here then, please,” she said, and exchanged a few more remarks with the craftsmen on the stage. Then she looked round. Somebody had just entered the Pavilion, was approaching her. It was her sister Hilda, and the very last person she wished to see at that moment.

So far Hilda has only entered this chronicle in the conversation of her nephew Hilary, who reported that she was “frightfully down on” the idea that he should spend his time with The Static. For the last fifteen years she has been the wife of Lawrence Newent, of Porchison, Newent, and Porchison, solicitors; the excellent mother of his two children and the equally excellent ruler of his household in Cadogan Place. She is not unlike our Miss Trant in appearance, but shorter and stouter and glossier; is actually six years older but looks ten. As a wife, a mother, a mistress of the house, she is a sensible and capable woman; it is only as a social being, a member of society, or rather two societies, for she is always leaving one and struggling into another, that she is somewhat ridiculous. In her time she has been the victim of many passing enthusiasms and cults, but it is obvious that though they might necessitate a revaluation of the whole universe (there was Theosophy, for example) they never at their maddest urge came within a thousand miles of managing a pierrot troupe. But for the last twenty years, she has alternately condemned her sister Elizabeth for holding herself in too much and for wanting to break out. During the last years of their father’s life she did not hesitate to say that Elizabeth had been foolish enough to allow herself to be submerged. At this moment⁠—and it is written in her eyes as she approaches⁠—she thinks the girl has emerged, broken out, with a vengeance.

They kissed. “But, Hilda”⁠—and Miss Trant gave a short nervous laugh⁠—“what a surprise!”

“Isn’t it?” said Hilda, rather vaguely. She was busy looking about her. “They told me I should find you here.” Her glance rested on Inigo’s lock of hair, on Jimmy’s puckered shining face above the piano, on Joe’s shirtsleeves, on Mr. Oakroyd’s sandwich and bottle of beer. And when her eyes returned to meet her sister’s, all these things had been quietly extinguished or at least removed a great distance.

“How did you find me?” Miss Trant asked quickly.

“Truby told me,” Hilda replied. “He wrote. He seemed to think it was his duty to write, that we ought to know. And I agree.”

“Well, I think it was rather impertinent of him,” cried Miss Trant. “It was no duty of his at all. I’m sure that’s not the way Lawrence treats his clients. Not that I really mind, of course.”

“Naturally. Unless, of course, you didn’t want us to know.”

Miss Trant coloured. “That’s absurd. I should have told you myself. I’ve had no opportunity yet, really. I’ve been so busy. Honestly, Hilda, I’ve never been so busy before. You’ve no idea what a lot there is to do.”

Hilda closed her eyes, an old trick of hers, effective for once because it seemed to remove still further the shirtsleeves and bottles of beer.

“But tell me,” Miss Trant went on, “how you came to find me here.”

“I wired to Truby and he told me where you were. Then I came down the moment I could. It was fearfully inconvenient putting everything off today⁠—you know what it’s like in town now, the awful rush⁠—but I simply had to come. Lawrence wanted to come himself. At first, when he heard about it, he laughed⁠—exercising his precious sense of humour, as usual⁠—but he soon saw it wasn’t particularly funny, and he wanted to come because he thought you’d probably been encouraged to sign some perfectly iniquitous contract or other and would lose all your money. He says this business is full of the most awful swindlers, and he knows all about these things. So he wanted to come himself and get you out of it, he said. But I told him I must see you myself first. There was quite a good train from Liverpool Street, and then of course it didn’t take me long to guess they would know something about you here. So there you have it, Elizabeth.”

“I see,” said Miss Trant slowly. Then she suddenly smiled and lightly touched her sister on the arm. “Well, Hilda, I’m very pleased to see you.”

There was a silence between them. From the piano there came a soft tum-tum-tumming. From the other side of the stage came the voice of Mr. Oakroyd, rather muffled with sandwich, saying very confidentially: “I’ll tell tha what it is, Joe. Ale you get from t’wood’s bad enuff naradays, but this ’ere bottled stuff’s nowt but fizz, blaws you up like a balloon.”

Hilda sent a glance of despair towards the stage, then moved away, down the gangway. Miss Trant followed her, and together they walked to the entrance, where they stopped.

“Now, my dear,” cried Miss Trant, “I can see you’re nearly bursting. Do begin.”

“And I can see you’re ready to fly into a temper and talk all kinds of nonsense,” replied Hilda good-humouredly. “And I refuse to have a quarrel in this absurd place, it would be too ridiculous.” Then she looked grave. “But I must say something.”

“Well, say it, Hilda, say it at once.”

“But my dear, you must admit I have a right to know. You might at least have told me. What I can’t understand is how on earth you came to be mixed up with these people at all. The last time I heard from you, you were down at Hitherton furnishing the Cottage and arranging to let the Hall. Then the next thing I hear⁠—and from Truby of all people⁠—is that you’re wandering round the country with a lot of wretched pierrots. It’s too absurd. Just as if you were a little stage-struck girl! How did it happen?”

Miss Trant told her, as best she could, how it happened, giving a very brief sketch of her adventures since she left Hitherton.

“And I suppose it is rather absurd,” she admitted, in conclusion. “But one can’t always be sensible, can one? After all, you’ve always done the sort of things you wanted to do, you know, Hilda. And this is something to do, and it’s fun, and it isn’t doing anybody any harm, in fact it’s doing all kinds, of people some good, me included.”

“I’m not at all sure about that,” said Hilda.

“I am,” said her sister decisively.

Hilda stared at her and was silent for a moment. She gave the impression that she was deciding to change her course of action, discarding a whole set of remonstrances and appeals. “Well, Elizabeth,” she said at last, quietly, “I’m not going to be the tremendous elder sister and all the rest of it. I’m not going to pretend to be an old-fashioned snob. I won’t remind you what Father would have thought of this⁠—” She saw her sister smile, and went on hastily: “Yes, I know. He didn’t approve of some of the things I used to do. I’ll admit we shall have to leave him out because he hardly approved of anything that wasn’t absolutely Victoria and Albert. But nobody has ever called me stodgy, have they? I’m not stuffy about the theatre and theatrical people. I’ve met them at parties⁠—the successful ones, I mean⁠—and I’ve invited them myself, and I’ll admit I’ve been glad to see them and meet them. Everybody is, nowadays, except a few old freaks. But this sort of thing is simply shabby and fourth-rate. It’s nothing but a crowd of beery men and common little girls trailing round from one dirty set of lodgings to another, living in the most awful kind of way on about twopence a week⁠—”

“Splendid, Hilda!” cried Miss Trant. “I never knew you were such an orator. I don’t agree with you, but go on.”

“Well, you must admit, my dear, there isn’t one of these people you’d dream of asking in even for a cup of tea at Hitherton.”

“I don’t admit it. And even if I did, it doesn’t prove anything. I refuse to regulate everything by what I might do at Hitherton. I’ve had rather a lot of Hitherton, you know,” she added, and in a tone of voice that helped Hilda to remember that she herself had taken care to have very little of Hitherton.

“Oh, I know you had a dull and rather awful time there,” cried Hilda, rather plaintively. “And you know that I didn’t mind at all about all the money and everything coming to you.”

“Of course, my dear. You needn’t tell me that.”

“Both Lawrence and I were glad, and we were hoping you would come and stay with us for some time and meet people and perhaps settle in town if you wanted to. I’d made all sorts of plans, Elizabeth⁠—”

“I’m very sorry to have upset your plans, Hilda.”

“No, don’t be absurd. But you must see that you can’t possibly go on with this crazy scheme. If it were something decent, I wouldn’t mind⁠—though you must admit you don’t know anything about business⁠—but this is too ridiculous. To begin with, it’s too dingy and futile for words. Then you don’t know anything about this sort of thing.”

“Well, I didn’t certainly. But I’m learning. And it’s great fun. I like it.”

“And as Lawrence says, these pierrot people are probably robbing you right and left, just living on you and laughing at you behind your back.”

“No, they’re not,” replied Miss Trant warmly. “That’s certainly not true. They’re very grateful⁠—and⁠—and loyal⁠—and awfully hardworking. They’re just as honest and decent as any of the people I’ve known. The only difference is⁠—they’re more amusing.”

“For a time perhaps, that’s all.”

“That may be. Perhaps one can only settle down with the kind of people one’s always known, and been brought up with, but then I’m not settling down, I’m having a change. You see, I wanted something to do, and now I’m doing it. I’m quite willing to admit that I may get tired of this life pretty soon, but until I do I intend to go on with it, to finish my little adventure. So there you are, Hilda!”

“Oh, but don’t you see⁠—!” She was exasperated now. “It’s just like talking to one of the children, it really is. Don’t you see that anything might happen while you’re going on like this? We can’t have you wandering round all winter staying in the most dreadful places by yourself, without a single person near you could trust to be sensible. And not only that, but what’s going to happen to your money? You might easily lose every penny. It’s monstrous, Elizabeth. Now honestly, have you made any money so far?”

“Not a ha’penny,” Miss Trant replied cheerfully.

“There you are!” Hilda was triumphant. “You haven’t, and you never will. I expect they’re all hopeless, these people, or they wouldn’t have been stranded like that.”

“No, they’re not. Some of them are really clever, far too good for the audiences they’re having. They really are, Hilda. Stay and see the”⁠—she hesitated, then brought it out bravely⁠—“the show tonight.” She laughed. “I’ll give you a free pass, just as if you had exhibited one of our bills in your shop window.”

“No, that’s not funny, Elizabeth,” Hilda snapped. “And I can’t stay tonight, and even if I could, I wouldn’t. The whole thing’s perfectly monstrous. Look at those people in there! You know very well you felt uncomfortable the moment I set eyes on them. Good Companions indeed! And all the time you’re spending your money to keep these feeble creatures in⁠—in⁠—beer. And they’re laughing at you, knowing quite well they don’t even need audiences when they’ve got you to fatten on. And you could be doing so much now, staying with us and meeting the right kind of people, interesting men, and⁠—oh⁠—everything. I’d like to know how much money you’ve thrown away already.”

“Well, I don’t propose to tell you, Hilda.”

“If you’d made some money out of it, that would be the tiniest excuse for going on,” cried Hilda, who plainly held, however, that it would really be no excuse at all, and was only using the first argument that came to hand. “As it is, there’s no excuse.”

“That’s where you are wrong,” said Miss Trant eagerly. “It seems to me all the more reason for my sticking to them. I’m far keener about it now than I was a week ago. We went to a place called Dotworth⁠—a most deadly little town⁠—and lost money there. Yes, it was a complete fiasco, I admit it. And after that, I told myself I wouldn’t give up for anything, not until we were really successful. Can’t you imagine what I feel about it, Hilda? I really like these pierrots⁠—you’d like some of them too⁠—and I think they like me and hate the thought of my losing money, and I should hate myself forever if I ran away now and let them down. Besides, I should despise myself just for running away, throwing all the adventure away just to feel safe and comfortable, just because a few people might be shocked.”

“You’re getting angry and excited now, my dear,” cried Hilda, raising her voice. “I knew you would. And I knew you’d be absurd and stubborn about it. You stuck down there at Hitherton, wouldn’t move, and now of course the minute you feel yourself free, you must go and do something absolutely senseless. Yes, wickedly senseless!” There were tears of vexation in her eyes. “If you want to do something, have adventures, as you call it, there are plenty of things you could do that would be worth doing and wouldn’t make you and the rest of us simply laughingstocks. It’s all so silly and useless. There couldn’t be anything sillier. Singing old music-hall songs and joggling at the knees and repeating stale jokes! Going round making shopgirls giggle! Cadging sixpences from butchers’ boys! And you of all people, Elizabeth! It’s perfectly incredible. And you might be meeting men you could marry, instead of hobnobbing with broken-down actors in awful places like this.”

“I don’t want to marry. And please stop, Hilda.” Miss Trant was not flushed now but pale. For the moment she could not stand up against this vehemence, in which there was real cutting scorn. She was at a grave disadvantage because she was still open to all the attack and could not produce a defence that she knew existed. It was not merely that Hilda would not understand her motives, but that she did not really understand them herself. They came from obscure but vital needs, from desires that had vanished underground, like the limestone country rivers, in girlhood. She did not know herself why there was something strangely satisfying about this life of dancing and singing and tinsel and limelight and odd journeys. She knew it was good to be full of plans, to be responsible, to be the comrade, perhaps the leader of these lovable creatures of the stage, but the rest she could not explain. So, for the moment, she was dumb, helpless.

Hilda saw her advantage but halted for a breathing-space before she pressed it home. And she was too late.

“Oh, Miss Trant!” cried a voice.

“Why, Miss Thong!” cried Miss Trant delightedly. “I’m so glad.”

“Yes, isn’t it nice? And what a journey! But here I am, with the dresses all ready. We’ve brought them too, you see. Elsie carried most, of course. Oh, but I’m interrupting, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I’m sure. You know what I am, I get carried away.”

“It’s all right,” said Miss Trant, smiling at her. “This is my sister, Mrs. Newent. And this is Miss Thong, who has been making some absolutely wonderful dresses for us.”

“Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” cried Miss Thong, who was bobbing about in an ecstasy. “Though if I’m fit to meet anybody or even to be seen, I shall be surprised, I shall indeed. What with working at the dresses and putting people off and smoothing Pa down and packing up and the long railway ride and meeting Elsie at the station and seeing the sea⁠—well, well⁠—” She began coughing, wrestled desperately, and gasped out her apologies to Hilda, who could not help staring at the queer rickety little mortal. “There, if that doesn’t just serve me right,” she concluded cheerfully. “That’s me all over. Talk, talk, get excited, won’t let others get a word in edgeways, then I land myself! Miss Trant’ll tell you how silly I am, Mrs. Newark.”

“We must go into the Pavilion and look at the dresses,” said Miss Trant. “Unless you’re too tired, Miss Thong, and would rather wait.”

“I couldn’t wait a single minute. I said to Elsie, ‘Just take me to Miss Trant and let her see the dresses or I shan’t rest,’ I said, ‘or it’s like being here under false pretences,’ I said, didn’t I, Elsie? Where is she? She must have taken them in, all but these. Yes, do let’s go in. Are you interested in these stage dresses, Mrs. Newark? I’m sure you are, being Miss Trant’s sister, and then having such nice taste yourself. You don’t mind me saying that, do you? I know it’s rather personal, coming from a stranger, but us dressmakers we can’t help noticing, you know. I see in a minute. ‘She knows what’s nice,’ I say to myself. ‘London style and good,’ I said to myself the very moment I saw you, Mrs. Newark. You’re sure you don’t mind? I don’t know what I shan’t say before the day’s out, and that’s the state I’m in. Doesn’t the air seem good? Can’t you feel it going inside you?”

“I’ve only just arrived myself,” said Hilda. “But the air does seem good here, I must say.”

“Doesn’t it?” cried Miss Thong, with so much enthusiasm that the two of them might have been arguing for hours and have only just reached a triumphant concordance. “That’s exactly what I say. I felt the benefit of it as soon as I set foot outside the station. Elsie laughed at me the way I breathed in and out, but get it while you can, I say. Is this where we go?”

“Come along, Hilda,” said Miss Trant. “You must see these dresses.” And then, a bolder stroke: “I’d like your advice too.”

And Hilda followed them in, only making a few faint noises that perhaps suggested it was no concern of hers. She had been offering her sister advice about clothes for the last fifteen years and she was not going to stop now, even if the girl had suddenly turned herself into a manager of pierrots. Once inside, however, she was compelled to listen to the enthusiastic babble of Miss Thong, who seemed to think it was her duty to attach herself to this other visitor.

“So this is where you are then,” cried Miss Thong. “Oh, isn’t it nicely fitted-up? Proper stage too! And I shall see them all on it tonight and my dresses as well. Where will I be sitting, I wonder. I’d like to sit on my seat now, just to try it. Where will you be sitting, Mrs. Newark?”

“I shan’t be here. I’m going back to London.”

“Are you really? Isn’t that a shame! But I expect you can see them any time, can’t you, being Miss Trant’s sister and able to come and go, I dare say. It’s a treat for little me, I can tell you. The way I’ve looked forward to it, and coming on top of the journey as well! They are good, aren’t they? And better still now than when I saw them! And fancy seeing the dresses you’ve made yourself coming out on to the stage, part of it all, as you might say, just fancy that!”

Miss Trant was examining a dress that Elsie was holding out.

“Oh, but this is perfectly lovely,” she cried. She looked up, caught her sister’s eye, and saw a gleam of interest in it. “Do look at this, Hilda,” she said.

“Yes, it is rather charming,” Hilda admitted. “But too good for this sort of work, I should think.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Newark,” cried Miss Thong. “You can’t say that. It’ll wear like anything and wash too. Just you take hold of it and have a good look.”

And Hilda did have a good look, at that and the others, and though she still maintained a rather stately and condescending attitude, as if she were looking down upon the dresses, their creator, and their prospective wearers, from a great height, she even went to the length of congratulating Miss Thong.

“I had thought of having a sort of mid-Victorian scene,” Miss Trant told her. “Do you remember that pile of old songs we had at home? Some of them could be used. Do you remember how we used to laugh at them, though some were quite charming? And what became of the crinoline? Didn’t you take it to town for a fancy dress?”

“Yes, but you couldn’t use it for the stage,” said Hilda, forgetting herself. “It’s not bright enough. Besides, it’s far too skimpy. Don’t you remember how small it was? I meant to have it altered but I never did.”

“Yes, I know, Hilda, but I thought if you wouldn’t mind lending it to me⁠—a mid-Victorian scene would be delightful, wouldn’t it⁠—Miss Thong could copy it more or less. You see how clever she is. I quite agree that it’s not bright enough. Now what colours would you suggest, my dear?” she inquired demurely.

It was absurd, but Hilda found herself not only promising to lend the crinoline but also suggesting colours and materials and actually discussing the whole question with this fantastic little dressmaker that Elizabeth had picked up on her ridiculous travels. And by the time they had finished, she was ready for a cup of tea. But she did not stay for the performance in the evening. To have done that would have been to suggest that she had no will of her own at all, to say nothing of missing the Dexters’ party. She insisted upon returning, as she had planned, by the 5:35, and said so a good many times, for somehow it sounded like a train that a strong-minded woman would catch.

“And mind you, Elizabeth,” she said at the station, “I haven’t changed my mind in the least. I think you’re behaving dreadfully. The whole thing’s too absurd for anything. And you really ought to see Lawrence as soon as you can, because you’re probably being hopelessly swindled every minute. And do look after yourself, and the very instant you feel less mulish and realize how futile and wearing the whole thing is, let us know, just drop it, and run, and we’ll see⁠—at least Lawrence will⁠—that these people don’t try to take advantage.”

“Very well, Hilda. I will,” said Miss Trant, very quietly, almost submissively, and with only the tiniest flicker of amusement in her face. But she could hear the voice of another Hilda, busy explaining away the antics of her younger sister, Elizabeth, and even making social capital out of them “Yes, my dear,” this voice was saying brightly, “it’s perfectly true. The crazy creature is actually running round the country, managing a concert party. Of course they’re not the ordinary kind of awful fourth-rate people, but really good⁠—one or two quite young and simply geniuses⁠—and Elizabeth discovered them in some obscure place and said she would make them famous. And there she is, hiring theatres and designing costumes and all the rest of it. Oh, quite crazy, of course! But very amusing and original, don’t you think? Exactly! Why not? That’s what I say. As a matter of fact, I’ve given her some pretty good advice about one or two things she didn’t understand.” And so that other voice ran on, while Miss Trant lifted her eyes demurely to meet her sister’s reproachful glance.

After Hilda had given a final caution and a final wave from the 5:35 Miss Trant returned briskly to her little hotel, with a wind from the sea whipping the blood in her cheeks for her flying colours. She did not care now. There were no longer two Miss Trants, wrestling and jabbing in the dark of her mind, but only one, looking boldly upon the world out of two fine grey eyes. The test had come⁠—and gone. If only these people would crowd in and enjoy her Good Companions, instead of staying miserably at home or going to the pictures or sitting in bar-parlours all night, she would be happy.

IV

Wednesday night was better than Monday or Tuesday: there were more people, especially in the cheaper seats, and, perhaps influenced by Miss Thong, who clapped everything, they were a trifle more enthusiastic. Thursday night was better still, but then Thursday was closing-day for the shops. Friday, however, was just as good as Thursday, and rather more appreciative. But none of these⁠—as Mrs. Joe said⁠—were what you could really call Nights. There were still rows and rows of empty chairs (the Wood Family, Jimmy Nunn called them); the applause was feeble, scattered, and there was hardly an excuse for an encore; and it was difficult not to feel that the mournful night was drifting in and smothering such enthusiasm as there was in the half-empty pavilion. And now the great question was, Would Saturday be a Night?

“If Saturday’s a fizzle,” Mrs. Joe announced on Friday night, in the ladies’ dressing-room, “I shan’t dare to look Miss Trant in the face, my dears. Dotworth didn’t matter⁠—”

“There wasn’t tuppence in the whole rotten little town,” Elsie put in, rubbing her face far too vigorously. “If they had a whist-drive there, they’d want to knock off and stay at home for six months.”

“But this place is different. It’s supposed to be a good date, and after all it’s only the middle of October. And look what we’ve done,” Mrs. Joe added, dejectedly. “Miss Trant will think we’re a lot of Jonahs, that is, if she understands the expression, which I doubt.”

“Lucky for her!” cried Susie, that child of the theatre. She pulled her dress over her head, and then remarked on emerging: “I must say I’d like to show her a real Night. She’s cheerful enough⁠—bless her!⁠—but I fancy, a full house, money turned away, encores all round, five curtains, speeches, thanks from the manager⁠—the usual ‘riot’ that everybody talks about in the adverts, and hardly anybody ever sees⁠—would buck her up no end. I know it would. And that new number of mine that Jimmy and Inigo have written is only waiting for an audience that isn’t sitting there just to hear ‘God Save the King’. It’s just crying out, ladies, for a few live ones in front.”

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Joe. “Experienced as I am⁠—and very few artistes who are artistes have struck more dead frosts than I have in my time⁠—I cannot, no, I can not, sing to chairs. I can feel the empty spaces, my dear, I assure you I can, and you’ve no idea how it wrecks my interpretation. I told Miss Trant this morning when I met her on the front: I said ‘Properly speaking, you’ve not heard me really interpret a song yet.’ But I didn’t tell her why. I felt it would have been adding insult to injury⁠—not that I’ve done her any injury, but you know what I mean?”

They did know what she meant, and they all sighed in chorus for a Night.

Jimmy Nunn and Mr. Morton Mitcham, having what they called “a quick one” with the manager of the Pier, Mr. Porson, in the Refreshment Room on Saturday morning, could not keep away from the subject.

“Yes,” said Mr. Porson, “we’re round about forty-three pounds so far. That means you’ll just about make up to your guarantee tonight, unless of course there’s a rush. A wet night might bring ’em in, though they’re not fond of walking out to the Pier on a wet night. If it’s fine, then they don’t want to come inside, and if it’s wet they don’t fancy the Pier.” And Mr. Porson added the short and rather cheerless laugh that he always tacked on to this observation, which he had made already at least fifty times this season, to say nothing of other seasons.

“If you ask me,” said Mr. Mitcham impressively, “I think we’re getting going in the town. Some of the fellows who come in here, fellows who never go in to see a show, are beginning to talk about it. They’ve heard something, you see. If we were here another week, we’d be playing to capacity. I know. I’ve seen it before. But there you are, we’re not.”

“Just what I think,” Jimmy Nunn admitted sadly. “We’ve got going, but too late. And damned hard cheese, I call it. As I told you, Mr. Porson, this lady who’s the boss, Miss Trant, she’s put up a lot of money for us⁠—”

“A lot of money,” Mr. Mitcham repeated emphatically, with the air of a man who knows money when he sees it.

“She’s new to it, you see, Mr. Porson,” Jimmy continued, “and she’s one of the best, a real lady too⁠—general’s daughter, they say. It’s time she began seeing something for her money.”

“She’ll think we’ve sold her the gold brick,” Mr. Mitcham put in mournfully.

“And the show ought to go,” said Jimmy.

“It oughter go big,” said Mr. Mitcham, who, in this despondent mood, seemed to become more Transatlantic.

Mr. Porson had heard something like this, usually in this very bar, every week since April, but he immediately agreed that it was a good show. “I don’t say it’s everybody’s show,” he said judicially. “It’s not one of your bustling knock-’em-about, come-on-let’s-have-the-applause shows. But I’ll tell you frankly⁠—I like it. You can put me down for that. It’s a fine little show, and we’re as disappointed as you are.” He finished his drink “Well, I must be trotting.” Mr. Porson was always trotting, as Miss Trant and Jimmy and other people who had business with him knew to their cost. He trotted so much that he could never be found. The other two watched him go, and then looked at one another with slightly raised brows, which announced that they had no great opinion of Mr. Porson, that Mr. Porson might be pleasant enough over a drink but nevertheless was a thoroughly incompetent person, the kind of manager who would ruin the chances of any show.

“What about finishing these and then walking down to see if there are any bookings?” Jimmy asked. The box office was at the entrance to the Pier. It took them ten minutes to reach it, but by the time they did they had quietly dismissed nine men out of every ten who had found their way, obviously by influence, my boy, into management, as creatures who merely cumbered the ground.

“Good morning, my dear, you’re looking very bright this morning,” said Mr. Mitcham to the young lady in the box office, who looked anything but bright. “And how are things?”

But the young lady, who suffered a good deal from bronchial trouble, really did brighten now. “Quite picking up today,” she replied. “I’ve booked out about two and a half rows of the two-and-fourpennies already, and I’ve had several inquiries on the telephone. I shouldn’t be surprised if a lot of the better-class people aren’t coming, for once. I believe you’re going to get a good house tonight.”

“Bless you, my child, for those kind words,” said Jimmy. Then he exchanged a glance with Mr. Mitcham. “It looks better, ol’ man.”

“It’s just as I said,” replied Mr. Mitcham. “We’ve got going in the town, though only at the last minute. Another week and it ’ud be capacity every night.”

“Well, a good send-off will be something. It’ll cheer us all up and look well in the adverts. ‘Thanks for wonderful send-off at Sandybay. Last night a riot!’ And I’ll tell you what I think, Mitcham,” Jimmy added earnestly. “Mr. Porson ought to get more chairs in. He told me himself he’d lent about fifty to the corporation. Let him put ’em back, I say. There’s time this afternoon. I’ll leave a message.” Miss Trant herself saw the extra chairs being taken in, late in the afternoon. Mr. Oakroyd was there, lending a hand.

“I suppose they’re expecting something rather wonderful next week,” she said to him with a touch of bitterness. “They don’t want any more seats for us.”

“Nay, Miss Trant, they do,” he told her, pushing back his little brown cap as usual, for he always wore his cap and always saluted her in this manner. “It’s going to be a right big do, they tell me, and even wi’ these extras ther’ll nobbut be standing room for them as comes at last minute, I dare say. All t’fowk where I’m lodging and ther friends and relations is coming. I do knaw, and all t’better seats is booked up, two and fower a time.”

“Oh, but that’s splendid, isn’t it, Mr. Oakroyd?” she cried.

“It’ll be a bit of a change,” he admitted dryly.

She looked at him reproachfully. “Is that all you can say?”

Mr. Oakroyd did not blush because he was not in the habit of blushing, but he looked a trifle confused. “Nay,” he protested, “I’m right glad. It’s champion.”

Miss Trant, rather excited now, returned to the Pavilion earlier than usual in the evening, and though there was the usual mournful drizzle, making the Pier look as forlorn as ever, already people were streaming along towards the Pavilion. Sandybay had discovered, at the eleventh hour, that the Good Companions were offering it an unusually good show. Ten minutes before the performance began, all the unreserved seats were filled and there were numbers of people standing at each side and at the back. In another five minutes, after a few more had been squeezed in, the “House Full” notice was put up and they were actually turning money away. Miss Trant, who was sitting in a corner in the wings, near the ladies’ dressing-room, had the news from Mr. Porson himself, and immediately both dressing-rooms and wings buzzed with it: “Turning money away, my dear”; “Capacity to the roof, ol’ man”; and they took turns at peeping through the curtain. “Going to be a Night, my dear,” they cried to one another. “What did I say? Something told me.”

“Now, Miss Trant,” said Mrs. Joe, “can’t you feel a difference?”

Miss Trant could. The whole atmosphere of the place was changed. You knew at once that on the other side of the curtain there were no longer any cold spaces and empty chairs and yawns and languid stares; that everybody there was expecting to be delightfully entertained, had already met the players more than halfway, was only waiting to hum and laugh and break into gigantic hailstorms of applause. Miss Trant tried hard to be coolly amused at the excitement of the others, but she did not succeed. She was as excited as they were, and was only thankful that she herself had nothing to do. Oh, this might be absurd, but it was thrilling, it was fun!

Jimmy had a last-minute inspiration. “Let’s open with the band behind the curtain. Our two numbers. ‘Slippin’ Round the Corner,’ then Susie’s number.” Inigo had been able to score these two songs of his for the little jazz band, with some assistance from Morton Mitcham, and they had both been well rehearsed. They got their instruments and took up their places: Inigo at the piano; Jimmy at the drums; Mitcham with his banjo; and Joe, Susie, and Elsie respectively with cornet, violin, and tenor saxophone, instruments they all played in a slapdash but sufficiently adequate manner. In less than a minute they were waiting for the signal to begin.

House lights out and footlights up. Applause already. Then⁠—one, two, three, and off they went. Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee. Rumpty-dee-tidee. Quietly at first, then louder, louder, then letting it rip. You could feel the whole house moving to its rhythm through the curtain. They were tapping; they were humming; they were eating and drinking it. A final flourish, crowned by Jimmy, who crashed his drumstick against the hanging cymbal. A moment’s silence. Then the Pavilion seemed all clapping hands.

“Instruments away,” shouted Jimmy through the tumult; “All on and the opening chorus as usual! Come, on, come on. Now then, Inigo! Ready with that curtain, Oakroyd! Gosh! it’s going with a bang tonight!”

And with a bang it went. They clapped when Joe warned them against the mighty deep, and clapped again when Mrs. Joe discovered Angus Macdonald coming home from the war. They rose as one man when Elsie tunefully announced she was looking for a boy like them. They reduced Morton Mitcham to mere sweat and grinning bone, and he did so many tricks and played so many tunes that both cards and strings must have been red-hot by the time he had done with them. They roared with laughter every time Jimmy opened his mouth or crossed the stage. And when Jerry Jerningham did his “Slipping Round the Corner” and Susie brought out her new song about going home, then they had no mercy but clapped and stamped and whistled and drummed their feet time after time to bring the two back again. When the final curtain came, it was nearly eleven, three-quarters of an hour past the usual time, and even then the enraptured audience would not stop applauding. “Spee‑ee‑eech!” some of them were calling.

Jimmy beckoned to Miss Trant, who was standing in the wings, at once excited and exhausted, dithering, because instead of being a mere spectator she had seen both actors and audience. “Come on and say something,” Jimmy’s mouth shaped at her.

Instantly she waved a frantic negative. She could no more have tottered into that lighted space and spoken to the loud if friendly monster there than have flown to the moon.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jimmy began.

But that was the signal for another outburst, and in the middle of it the attendant could be seen pushing his way up to the stage, carrying a magnificent bouquet of roses. The lights were up now and everybody on the stage could see that approaching bouquet. The three women never took their eyes away from it. Mrs. Joe was not without her hopes, for might there not be a Music Lover in the house? It flashed through Elsie’s mind that probably some gentleman friend⁠—Elsie was rich in gentlemen friends⁠—was in front. Susie was already preparing a special smile and curtsy, for it was hardly possible that the bouquet could be for anyone else. If ever a girl had earned a bouquet, she had tonight. The attendant held it up, and Jimmy came forward with a skip and a jump to receive it. He read the label, and the three women held their breath. He turned and, with a droll gesture and smirk, handed it⁠—to Jerry Jerningham.

Mr. Jerningham, very warm, very tired, a little shiny perhaps, but still exquisite, bowed his acknowledgement very gracefully, then, after a quick glance at the label, which said To Mr. Jerry Jerningham from an Unknown Admirer and said it in a flowing and feminine handwriting, smiled again at the audience and smiled at his fellow-players, three of whom were attempting to disguise looks of mingled amazement and disgust. And it may be admitted, here and now, that there was talk of that monstrous bouquet for weeks afterwards in the ladies’ dressing-room, that we ourselves have perhaps not heard the last of it, that the Unknown Admirer may turn up again.

It was over at last. Inigo, hotter and even more weary than Mr. Jerningham and not at all exquisite, hammered out something that approximated to “God Save the King,” and then, safe behind the lowered curtain, nearly fell off his chair. “This is the boy that ought to have a bouquet,” said Mrs. Joe, who had a great opinion of Inigo. “Look how he’s worked. And never even got so much as a hand!”

“Yes, it’s a rotten shame,” said Susie, smiling at him. “Look⁠—his lock of hair’s nearly coming out. Never mind, you were wonderful, Inigo, and the song’s a darling, darling, da‑ar‑ling.” And off she ran.

Miss Trant found Mr. Porson at her elbow, saying something about returns and a future date, but at the moment it was impossible for her to be quietly sensible. They were all still shouting congratulations to one another and clearing away their props. It was like the end of a crazy party. After a minute or two, she decided to wait outside until some of the others had finished changing. And very strange it was to go outside and find the night there, the glitter of the promenade, the mysterious and murmuring dark of the sea, the lonely lights far out, the chill salt breath that now seemed so sweet.

Out they came, dim shapes with jubilant voices. A cigarette went curving over the side like a tiny meteor, and a voice said: “Ah, I’d rather taste the air than that.” They gathered round her. “Well, this was a Night, wasn’t it?” they chorused: and “What a send-off!” and “A riot at Sandybay, my dear!” Jerry Jerningham held out his roses to Elsie, who condescended to smell them. Mrs. Joe found Mr. Joe, who tucked her arm in his and gave the scene a pleasantly domestic flavour, so that you could almost see little George himself there with them. Inigo went dodging round so that he could place himself by the side of Susie, a bafflingly elusive girl. Mr. Mitcham was still in the middle of an anecdote to which nobody was paying any attention. Jimmy Nunn came up, giving instructions to Mr. Oakroyd. Then suddenly, all at once, they were telling one another how tired they were.

“And so am I,” cried Miss Trant, “although I haven’t done anything. I feel as if I could go to bed for three days. Thank goodness it’s Sunday tomorrow.

“Yes,” said Jimmy, “and by the way, I’ve looked up the trains for Winstead. I’ve got it down in my notebook and I’ll look it up when we get to the entrance. No Through, of course. The usual cross-country business⁠—an hour’s wait at Mudby-on-the-Wash and then another hour at Washby-on-the-Mud, and so on. Who are you taking in the car, Miss Trant? You’d better let us know now.”

“Oh, good heavens. I’d forgotten!” she cried, in such droll dismay that they laughed. “I was thinking I was going to have a nice quiet day here, breakfast in bed with a book and then a little sewing. I’d forgotten all about Winstead. Isn’t it terrible? We’ve got to begin all over again.” And then they laughed at her again, for there was something in her tone that told them she was now much happier about it all and seemed to establish her companionship with them. They moved slowly towards the Pier entrance, planning the next day’s journey.