good parts in the touring companies of London successes, but
beyond that it seemed it was impossible for her to soar. It was
not, perhaps, a very exhilarating life, but, except to the eyes of
love, there was nothing tragic about it. It was the cumulative
effect of having a mother in reduced circumstances and grumbling
about it, of being compelled to work and grumbling about that, and
of achieving in her work only a semi-success and grumbling about
that also, that--backed by her looks--enabled Claire to give quite
a number of people, and Bill Dawlish in particular, the impression
that she was a modern martyr, only sustained by her indomitable
courage.

So Bill, being requested in a peevish voice to explain what he
meant by saying, 'Oh, I don't know,' condoned the peevishness. He
then bent his mind to the task of trying to ascertain what he had
meant.

'Well,' he said, 'what I mean is, if you don't show up won't it be
rather a jar for old friend Maginnis? Won't he be apt to foam at
the mouth a bit and stop giving you parts in his companies?'

'I'm sick of trying to please Maginnis. What's the good? He never
gives me a chance in London. I'm sick of being always on tour. I'm
sick of everything.'

'It's the heat,' said Lord Dawlish, most injudiciously.

'It isn't the heat. It's you!'

'Me? What have I done?'