All the names which Stannard had given her were those of minor managers.
It was late in the season and their companies would in all probability
be made up and booked for the road. Still she went to them. There was
a bare chance that one of them might have a vacancy. For two hours she
hung about their offices waiting for an interview, only to waste her
time in the end. "Full up" was the answer she got to each application.
The last place she called at was situated in a block of buildings off
Shaftesbury Avenue. As she left it a door facing her on the opposite
side of the passage opened and a man in a frock coat and silk hat came
out. He stopped short, looked her up and down and spoke.
"Excuse me, but are you out of an engagement?"
"Yes," she replied, a last glimmer of hope flickering within her, the
silk hat suggesting something managerial.
The stranger's next words confirmed her in this idea.
"I believe you're the very person I've been looking for for a week. The
question is, can you sing?"
"Yes."
"Then come in."
He threw the door open again and followed her in. The room contained
two chairs, a desk, a small grand piano, one or two playbills on the
walls and several diagrams of the larynx, looking not unlike a map of
the tube railways.
"This is my practise room and therefore bare," he explained. "It's bad
to sing in a room blocked up with furniture. Breaks up the voice, you
know. By the way, my name's Norburton--Gerald Norburton. You may have
heard of it," he added modestly.
Alexandra had heard of it. The name was that of a singer of some
repute.
"Oh, then, you're not an agent," she said, a little disappointed.
"Lord, no." The idea seemed to amuse him. "Fact of the matter is this:
my friend, Maurice Haines, wrote to me the other day--here's his
letter--asking me to find him a likely girl for a sketch he has booked
at the Palace. He'd engaged some one, but she's just gone in for
appendicitis. Funny thing, appendicitis. Has it ever occurred to
you--" The blank look in Alexandra's face constrained him to keep to
business. "So he appeals to me, thinking that as a singer I might know
some one likely. But I didn't--not until I saw you. If you can sing
it's a sure thing." He read from the letter he had been searching for.
"'She must be tall and dark and a lady. Youth essential. Of course she
must have a well-trained voice, but previous experience doesn't matter.
I'll look in next week, and if you know a girl who will do, for heaven's
sake have her round. The sketch is booked for the next six months,
first here and then in the leading provincial towns. I'll pay ten
pounds a week for the right woman.'
"What do you think of that?"
"It seems to me it depends on my voice," said Alexandra.
"That's it. Do you mind singing me something? Here's a pile of songs.
Pick out one you know."
She found a song. Norburton played the accompaniment. She had an idea
she was singing well and hoped he would think so. When she finished,
she had the impression that he was not satisfied.
"I'm afraid you're disappointed," she said, with foreboding.
"No, not exactly. You've a nice voice. You want to know how to pitch
it better. As it is it won't carry. I believe I could teach you in
five days, before Haines comes round."
"I couldn't expect you to do that."
"But I _do_ teach," he laughed. "Do you doubt my capability? I assure
you that besides being a public singer I get three guineas for every
half-hour lesson I give."
"What I meant was," said Alexandra, "that I couldn't expect you to coach
me for nothing, and I couldn't pay enough to make it worth your while."
He appeared to think.
"I want to do my best for Haines," he said. "Look here. I'll give you
five lessons--one every day for ten minutes--and you can pay me what you
can afford, five shillings a lesson, say."