``Do you wish to try, Miss Gower?''
Mildred was silent. She knew now the sort of piece
in which she was to appear. She had seen a few of
them, those cheap and vulgar farces with their thin
music, their more than dubious-looking people. What
a come-down! What a degradation! It was as bad
in its way as being the wife of General Siddall. And
she was to do this, in preference to marrying Stanley
Baird.
``You will be paid, of course, during rehearsal; that
is, as long as we are taking your time. Fifty dollars
a week is about as much as we can afford.'' Crossley
was watching her shrewdly, was advancing these
remarks in response to the hesitation he saw so plainly.
``Of course it isn't grand opera,'' he went on. ``In
fact, it's pretty low--almost as low as the public taste.
You see, we aren't subsidized by millionaires who want
people to think they're artistic, so we have to hustle to
separate the public from its money. But if you make
a hit, you can earn enough to put you into grand opera
in fine style.
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