people. "One must let her talk, but of course it creates a prejudice," she said, with her eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Lovick, who had got up, terminating their communion with Mrs. Rooth. "It's a great muddle, I know, but she can't bear anything coarse—and quite right, too. I shouldn't, either, if I didn't have to. But I don't care where I go if I can act, or who they are if they'll help me. I want to act—that's what I want to do; I don't want to meddle in people's affairs. I can look out for myself—I'm all right!" the girl exclaimed, roundly, frankly, with a ring of honesty which made her crude and pure. "As for doing the bad ones, I'm not afraid of that."
"The bad ones?"
"The bad women, in the plays—like Madame Carré. I'll do anything."
"I think you'll do best what you are," remarked Sherringham, laughing. "You're a strange girl."
"Je crois bien! Doesn't one have to be, to want to go and exhibit one's self to a loathsome crowd, on a platform, with trumpets and a big drum, for money—to parade one's body and one's soul?"
Sherringham looked at her a moment: her face changed constantly; now there was a little flush and a noble delicacy in it.
"Give it up; you're too good for it," he said, abruptly.
"Never, never—never till I'm pelted!"
"Then stay on here a bit; I'll take you to the theatres."
"Oh, you dear!" Miriam delightedly exclaimed. Mr. and Mrs. Lovick, accompanied by Mrs. Rooth, now crossed the
