352 ANGEL PAVEMENT

in a place like that. So dark and dismal, isn't it? And
they call that street Angel Pavement! What a name for
it! I nearly passed straight out when my father told
me. If ever I have to work for my living, I'd rather work
in a shop than in an office like that. I wouldn't mind
being a mannequin. Or go on the stage. That would be
best of all. I want to go on the stage. I nearly went on
when I was in Paris. And a man wanted me to go in for
film work—he said he'd get me a part right away. Do
you think I'd be any good for the films?"

"Yes, I'm sure you would," said Turgis earnestly, all
solemn adoration. "You'd be wonderful on the pictures
—like Lulu Castellar or one of those stars—only better.
I'd go anywhere to see you."

If he had thought about it for days, he could not have
produced a speech more calculated to please her than
this, because it chimed with her own innermost aspira-
tions and beliefs. And his solemn adoration, a change
from the usual obvious gallantry, was very pleasant.
She smiled at him, slowly, with a kind of sweet delibera-
tion, and he sat looking at her, silent, intoxicated.

The silence was broken by a sharp rat-tat-tat. "Oh,
damn!" cried Lena. "Who's that?" and went out to
see. She returned, raising her eyebrows comically at
Turgis, followed by a very strange figure. It was an old
woman who looked like a dressed up and painted witch.
She had an enormous nose, hollow cheeks, deeply
sunken eyes, but, nevertheless, her face had the pink and
white colouring of youth. This was because it was
thickly painted, and when it caught the light, it shone,
just as if it was enamelled and varnished. She was wear-
ing, above a purple dress, a gigantic yellow shawl with
a pattern of scarlet flowers on it, and she glittered with