Crossley was looking about for someone to take her
place. He had been entrenched in those offices for
nearly five years; in all that time not a single soul of the
desperate crowds that dogged him had broken through
his guard. Crossley was as superstitious as was everyone
else who has to do with the stage.
``What kind of a voice?'' asked he.
``Lyric soprano.''
``You have music there. What?''
`` `Batti Batti' and a little song in English--`The
Rose and the Bee.' ''
Crossley forgot his manners, turned his back squarely
upon her, thrust his hands deep into his trousers
pockets, and stared out through the window. He presently
wheeled round. She would not have thought his
eyes could be so keen. Said he: ``You were studying
for grand opera?''
``Yes.''
``Why do you drop it and take up this?''
``No money,'' replied she. ``I've got to make my
living at once.''
``Well, let's see. Come with me, please.''
They went out by a door into the hall, went back to
the rear of the building, in at an iron door, down a
flight of steep iron skeleton steps dimly lighted.
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