They were not deliberately unkind to Chrissie, and had she been good tempered and friendly, they would soon have accepted her as one of themselves. But she was always on the defensive, ready to take offence long before anyone had slighted or provoked her, and the ordinarily happy-go-lucky men and women of the theatre sensed her enmity and instinctively disliked her. She was like an ill treated dog who has learnt to snarl at everyone, both friend and foe.

Sometimes Stella would argue with her when they were alone together.

‘Why are you so nasty about everyone, Chrissie?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be? They’re nasty enough about me when they get the chance.’

‘How do you know?’ Stella asked. ‘You frighten people when you snap their heads off, and it makes them snap back. They would be nice, if you’d let them.’

‘I don’t want their niceness,’ Chrissie cried savagely. ‘I want to be left alone.’

But it wasn’t true! Like everyone else she wanted friends. She wanted to be liked and – loved. Yes, loved, fêted and courted by men as Stella was!

At times she hated Stella with a primitive, burning hatred because men desired her. Chrissie would watch their eyes as they rested on Stella’s warm, glowing prettiness. She would see the smouldering passion, the rising flame of desire and she would know a sudden frightening response within herself.

Then they would catch sight of her watching them, or perhaps the very ferment of her emotions would draw their attention. Chrissie would wait for their expressions to alter.

Disgust would replace desire, they would be both repelled and revolted. Only occasionally was there pity in their regard, and that, Chrissie felt, was harder to bear than anything else.

Was it any wonder after such incidents that Stella found her irritability and asperity hard to bear? Was it surprising that at night Chrissie often wished to die so that her body might rot unseen in the darkness of the earth?

She had, however, the bitter, perverted satisfaction of knowing that Stella’s beauty would have brought her nothing without her own brain to exploit it. There was a satisfaction, if a vicarious one, in forcing Stella to do as she wanted, in controlling her as one might a puppet, in using her mercilessly in the pursuit of money.

Money! Chrissie had decided long ago that was the only thing worth having in life. Money could buy comfort, luxury, security and the envy of less fortunate persons. Money, she told herself, was infinitely more desirable than love or friendship. Money was a salve and a balm for everything, even for the torment of a frustrated, stunted womanhood.