. . . Meanwhile her employer, Pat Hobby, stood in front of the barber shop talking to Louie, the studio bookie. Pat’s four weeks at two-fifty would be up tomorrow and he had begun to have that harassed and aghast feeling of those who live always on the edge of solvency.

‘Four lousy weeks on a bad script,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’ve had in six months.’

‘How do you live?’ asked Louie — without too much show of interest.

‘I don’t live. The days go by, the weeks go by. But who cares? Who cares — after twenty years.’

‘You had a good time in your day,’ Louie reminded him.

Pat looked after a dress extra in a shimmering lamé gown.

‘Sure,’ he admitted, ‘I had three wives. All anybody could want.’

‘You mean that was one of your wives?’ asked Louie.

Pat peered after the disappearing figure.

‘No-o. I didn’t say that was one. But I’ve had plenty of them feeding out of............