"How much should I get?"

"Two pounds a week."

"That's as much as you."

"Yes; but you'd have to work for it. I don't."

"Oh yes; but what sort of work? Nothing to typewriting."

"Perhaps not. But they'd probably expect more than work out of you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when a stage manager gives an unknown girl a walk on in the
chorus of a musical comedy, he looks upon it in the light of a favour.
I suppose it is too. He puts her in the way of knowing a lot of
well-to-do young men, and he pays her two pounds a week for doing
nothing but look pretty under the most advantageous circumstances.
There are women who would pay to get a job like that."

Sally's face puckered with disgust. "I think life's beastly," she
said.

Janet smiled. "That's not life," she said; "that's musical comedy."

Then she lit another cigarette and sat there, watching Sally take
off her wet clothes; smiled at her, catching the garments with the
tips of her fingers, and shuddering when they touched her skin.