She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. “She’s all right. ‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. A girl of fifteen or sixteen gave her a handbill that she regarded as a tract until she saw “Votes for Women” at the top. Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner.
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