The dress-rehearsal ended at midnight in an atmosphere of acute tension. Because she had not yet been paid, Martyn proposed to sleep again in the greenroom. So easily do our standards adjust themselves to our circumstances that whereas on her first night at the Vulcan the greenroom had been a blessed haven, her hours of precarious security had bred a longing for a bed and ordered cleanliness, and she began to dread the night.

In groups and singly, the actors and stage-staff drifted away. Their voices died out in the alley and passages, and she saw, with dismay, that Fred Badger had emerged from the door of his cubby-hole and now eyed her speculatively. Desolation and fear possessed Martyn. With a show of preoccupation, she hurried away to Miss Hamilton’s dressing-room which she had already set in order. Here she would find a moment’s respite. Perhaps in a few minutes she would creep down the passage and lock herself in the empty room and wait there until Fred Badger had gone his rounds. He would think she had found a lodging somewhere and left the theatre. She opened the door of Miss Hamilton’s room and went in.

Adam Poole was sitting in front of the gas-fire.

Martyn stammered, ‘I’m sorry,’ and made for the door.

‘Come in,’ he said and stood up. ‘I want to see you for a moment.’

‘Well,’ Martyn thought sickly, ‘this is it. I’m to go.’

He twisted the chair round and ordered rather than invited her to sit in it. As she did so she thought: ‘I won’t be able to sleep here tonight. When he’s sacked me I’ll get my suitcase and ask my way to the nearest women’s hostel. I’ll walk alone through the streets and when I get there the hostel will be shut.’

He had turned his back to her and seemed to be examining something on the dressing-shelf.

‘I would very much rather have disregarded this business,’ he said irritably, ‘but I suppose I can’t. For one thing, someone should apologize to you for Bennington’s behaviour. He’s not likely to do it for himself.’

‘It really didn’t matter.’

‘Of course it mattered,’ he said sharply. ‘It was insufferable. For both of us.’

She was too distressed to recognize as one of pleasure the small shock this last phrase gave her.

‘You realize, of course, how this nonsense started,’ he was saying. ‘You’ve seen something of the play. You’ve seen me. It’s not a matter for congratulation, I dare say, but you’re like enough to be my daughter. You’re a New Zealander, I understand. How old are you?’

‘Nineteen, sir.’