.

After leaving her tiny, grubby back room in Bloomsbury (time and fares
prohibit a bigger, better room in the suburbs), where she has cleaned
her own shoes, ironed her blouse and sewn in frilling before starting,
she walks down to an agent. The waiting-room there has a couple
of forms, which are already filled, and groups of girls have been
standing for some time. They have all had insufficient breakfasts,
badly served and ill-cooked; they all wear cheap and uncomfortable
shoes, too thin for wet pavements; they are all obliged to put on a
desperately photographic pose and expression, in case the agent's eyes
light on them. One or two, better dressed and more self-possessed,
secure interviews and pass out by another door. No information about
the part is to be procured, they are all there "on the chance." At
half past one the agent comes out for lunch, saying, as he passes
through the room, "No use waiting, ladies; no one else wanted to-day."
Our average friend has stayed for three hours, knowing no one to speak
to, and leaves no nearer her goal for her morning's congenial work.
She lunches on sandwiches and tea, re-arranges her hat and veil, and
starts out with fresh hope to use her one letter of introduction to
the manager of a West End theatre.

She hands it to a door-keeper, who may possibly be considerate, but
cannot offer her a chair. There is no waiting-room; she waits in a
draughty, tiny passage, stage hands constantly squeezing by her. There
is a rehearsal; she must wait, or come back in an hour's time. She
walks round and looks into the shops in Leicester Square, and returns
thoroughly fatigued and a little pale, at four o'clock. She is shown
into an office, and by virtue of her letter of introduction is asked
to sit down. A few questions are put to her about her past work: she
does not know what part the manager has in mind, and puts forward
inept qualifications. In two or three minutes the important man has
formed his opinion of her face, carriage, expression, and has decided
if he will remember her or not. Her name being average, the odds are
that he will not; but he murmurs, "If anything turns up, I will let
you know," and her big chance is over. There is nothing approaching an
audition, such as a singer gets. It is the only opportunity afforded
her, this poor and hopeless method of proving her capacity as an
actress. It leaves her poorer for the day's outlay in food. She walks
back to the little room,