e sunlight. Now she patted
back a yawn. "Walk?"

"Oh, sure. It's lovely out."

It was tacitly understood that Julia was to be an actress some day, when
she was older, and the boarding-house of Mrs. Minnie Tarbury, to which
the Pages were idly sauntering, was inhabited almost entirely by
theatrical folk. Emeline and Julia were quite at home in the shabby
overcrowded house in Eddy Street, and to-day walked in at the basement
door, under a flight of wooden stairs that led to the parlour floor, and
surprised the household at lunch in the dark, bay-windowed front room.

Mrs. Tarbury, a large, uncorseted woman, presided. Her boarders, girls
for the most part, were scattered down the long table. Luncheon was
properly over, but the girls were still gossiping over their tea. Flies
buzzed in the sunny window, and the rumpled tablecloth was covered with
crumbs. Mrs. Tarbury kissed Mrs. Page, and Julia settled down between
two affectionate chorus girls.

"You know you're getting to be the handsomest thing that ever lived,
Ju!" said one of these. Julia smiled without raising her eyes from the
knives and forks with which she was absently playing.

"She's got the blues to-day," said her mother. "Not a word out of her!"

"Is that right, Ju?" somebody asked solicitously.

"Just about as right as Mama ever gets it," the girl said, still with
her indifferent smile. Because her mother was shallow and violent, she
had learned to like a pose of silence, of absent-mindedness, and
because of the small yet sufficient income afforded by the rented rooms
and from alimony, Julia was removed from the necessity that drove these
other girls to the hard and constant work of the stage, and could afford
her favourite air of fastidious waiting. She was going to be an actress,
yes, but not until some plum worthy of her beauty and youth was offered.
Meanwhile she listened to the others, followed the history of the
favourites of the stage eagerly, and never saw less than four shows a
week. Julia, at Juliet's age, had her own ideas as to the interpretation
of the Balcony Scene, and could tell why she thought the art of Miss
Rehan less finished than that of Madame Modjeska. But personally she
lacked ambition, in this direction at least.

However, she joined in the girls' talk with great zest; a manager was to
be put in his place, and several theories were advanced as to his
treatment.

"I swear to God if Max don't give me twenty lines in the next, I