"Is it Miss Ransom?" a voice inquired.

Marianne could see nothing of the speaker except her outline – that of a stout, short lady wearing a frilled cap of such extravagant proportions that her head resembled a cabbage – but she liked the sound of the low, pleasant voice. She started to reply, but was forestalled by Mrs. Wackford, still in the carriage.

"It is. You, madam, are Mrs. Shortbody? Then, madam, I have fulfilled my responsibilities and I bid you good night. Driver, we will proceed immediately to the Tavistock Hotel."

" 'old your 'orses," the driver replied. "I'll just 'elp the young lady wif her boxes."

"Thank you," Marianne said.

The driver grinned broadly at her, displaying brown, rotting teeth.

"There won't be no change out o' 'er," he said cryptically. "You go on, miss; I'll just take me time 'ere."

Marianne started up the stairs. Mrs. Wackford's furious criticisms of the driver formed a loud background accompaniment, though it had no perceptible effect on its object.

Mrs. Shortbody stepped forward as Marianne reached the top of the steps and held out both hands. Her grasp was warm, and her face, framed by the frills of her cap, was as smiling and pleasant as her voice.

"Welcome to London, my dear." Marianne burst into tears.

As was to be expected, the seats inside the omnibus were all taken. There was room on top; but no lady ever attempted to mount the perpendicular iron ladder to that lofty region. If her long skirts had not prevented such an exercise, the possibility of exposing petticoats and pantalettes to the bold gazes of men below would have been unthinkable.

If it had been raining, even chivalry might not have prompted any of the men to exchange their inside seats for a place on the unroofed top of the bus. Fortunately for Marianne the day was fair, and one young man – a clerk on an errand, to judge by his neat but shabby attire and the large parcel he carried – was susceptible to melting turquoise-blue eyes. Marianne was not unaware of the charming picture she presented, slim and pathetic in her black gown, a few tendrils of sunny hair escaping the confines of her black bonnet; and it is to be feared that she allowed her eyes to linger on the young man's face for an instant before lowering them in modest confusion. An instant was all that was required. The young clerk leaped to his feet and bowed Marianne into his vacated seat.

Marianne relaxed as much as the hard wooden bench would allow and pushed her curls back into place with her gloved hand. It would be at least half an hour before she reached her destination; time to collect her thoughts and complete her plans.

She could hardly believe she had been in London only two days. The quiet country village from which she had come seemed like another world, and she felt herself quite a different person from the simple girl who had wept with weariness and nerves at the first kind word.

The omnibus made slow progress. Traffic was heavy, and if there were rules of the road, no one paid the slightest attention to them. Heavy drays, pushcarts and wagons, hansom cabs and carriages contended with pedestrians for the right-of-way.

A young man tossed a handful of bright-purple papers in through the window. Most of the passengers ignored them or brushed them irritably aside; but Marianne picked one up. She was intrigued by this form of advertising, quite unknown and indeed unnecessary in Wulfingham. This handbill told the pathetic yet encouraging story of a young man of Exeter who had been "effectively cured in a single night of insanity by swallowing the whole contents of a thirteen-penny-half-penny box of Number Two Pills."

Marianne of course believed every word of this. She marveled at the wonders of modern medicine and decided that perhaps the Number Two Pills might help Lady Verill. Next time she wrote Mrs. Jay she would mention them.

Yes, London was certainly a marvelous place! The city still frightened her a little; it was so very large and so exceedingly dirty. Dust and mud she was accustomed to, but the sticky soot that clung like oil to her clothing and skin disgusted her. However, the people were very kind, quite unlike the picture she had formed from the warnings of her friends back home. She had gotten the impression that Londoners were too busy to be civil or helpful to a stranger. She had certainly not found it so. Everyone had been most pleasant, especially the gentlemen.

Of course, she reminded herself, she had as yet seen only a minute fraction of the population. She had spent the preceding two days settling in, getting acquainted with her landlady and the other young ladies, and – somewhat surreptitiously – collecting as much information as she could about the city. Her complacent smile faded as she remembered some of the things she had said and done. Yes, she had changed – and not for the better. She had not told any out-and-out lies… But that was equivocating, and Marianne knew it. Her silence had been a form of lying, her efforts to discover what she needed to know had been sly and lacking in candor.

Yet what else could she have done? If she had told Mrs. Shortbody what she intended, her landlady would have forbidden it in no uncertain terms. Mrs. Shortbody's genial face and round, comfortable figure had led Marianne to hope that her views would be more liberal than those of her old friend, but to her disappointment Mrs. Shortbody was just as narrow-minded and old-fashioned as Mrs. Jay, especially in her opinions about the theater. After all, the Queen had attended innumerable theatrical performances before her husband's death sent her into the voluntary retirement from which she had not emerged for years. She and Prince Albert had even acted themselves, in the privacy of the royal parlor. Mrs. Shortbody had admitted, in response to Marianne's adroit questioning, that she enjoyed a good performance of Shakespeare as much as anyone. However, she had added, most actors and actresses were people of immoral habits – not the sort one would ever invite into one's home.

Marianne did not remain gloomy for long. She assured herself that she would tell Mrs. Shortbody the truth as soon as she had secured a position as a singer; and surely, when the good lady saw how thoroughly respectable the situation was, she would accept it. ("My dear Miss Ransom, if I had but known… You were right, and I was quite wrong.")

Such pleasant visions, including the now classic daydream of the Prince of Wales bowing with tears in his eyes, occupied Marianne quite happily until she reached her destination. She would have missed the stop if the driver had not descended from his high seat to throw open the door and announce, "The Strand," as he nodded benignly at her. Unaware of how remarkable this behavior was, Marianne thanked him prettily and accepted his hand as she descended.

Though the theater she had selected was not far away, it took her some time to find it. Finally she stopped a constable and asked directions.

The facade of the Imperial Theater was all she had ever imagined. It had been recently remodeled in the latest classical mode, and the soot of London had as yet made comparatively small impression upon the Corinthian columns and the modestly draped caryatids. The lobby, with its massive bronze chandeliers and thick plum-colored carpeting, was as imposing as the exterior. Seeing no one about, Marianne pushed through the doors leading to the auditorium.

Later she would realize what a fortuitous chain of circumstances had conspired to lead her, unquestioned and unhindered, to the stage of that most prestigious of theaters. A rehearsal had been called for that morning, and she happened to arrive just after the doors were opened and just before the cast had assembled. The humbler employees were occupied with various errands, so the vast auditorium was unoccupied. The stage was alight and waiting.