“I entirely agree,” said Mr. Clarkson; “my remark was Victorian.”

A babel of yells, screams, and howlings greeted the appearance of the two first candidates.  The Master of the Ceremonies led them forward, by the right and left hand.  Pointing at one, he shouted her name, and a wild outburst of mingled applause and derision rent the air.  Shouting again, he pointed at the other, and exactly the same turmoil of noise arose.  Then he faced the girls round to the judges, and they instantly became conscious of the backs of their dresses, and put their hands up to feel if their blouses were hooked.

But the chairman, with responsible solemnity, having contemplated the girls through his eyeglasses, holding his head slightly on one side, briefly consulted the other judges, and signalled one girl to pass behind the table on his right, the other on his left.  The one on his left was recognised as winner, and the house applauded with tumult, the supporters of the defeated yielding to success.

Before the applause had died, two more girls were led forward, and the storm of shouts and yells arose again.  One of the candidates was dressed in pink, with a shiny black belt round her waist, a huge pink bow in her fluffy, light hair, and white stockings very visible.  When the Master shouted her name, she cocked her head on one side, giggled, and writhed her shoulders.  Cries of “Saucy!” “Mabel!” “Ain’t I a nice little girl?” and “There’s a little bit of all right!” saluted her, and the approval was beyond question.  He pointed to the other, and a rage of execration burst forth, “O Ginger!” “Ain’t she got a cheek?” “Lock her up for the night!” “Oh, you giddy old thing!” were the chief cries that Mr. Clarkson could distinguish in the general howling.  A band of youths behind him began singing, “Tell me the old, old story.”  In the gallery they sang “Sit down, sit down,” to the tune of the Westminster chimes.  Half the theatre joined in one song, half in the other, and the singing ended in cat-calls, whistles, and shrieks of mockery.  The red-haired girl stood pale and motionless, her eyes fixed on some point of vacancy beyond the yelling crowd.

“Terribly painful position for a woman!” said Mr. Clarkson.

“Ill-advised,” said the big man, shaking his head; “very ill-advised.”

“Good lesson for her,” remarked Albert.  “These shows teach the ugly ones to know their place.  Improve the breed these shows do—­same as ’orse-racing.”  And having shouted “Ginger!” again, he added, “Bandy!”

“Ain’t it wicked for a woman to have such an imperence?” cried Albert’s girl, joining in the yell as the candidate was marched off to the side of the losers.

“Isn’t this all a little personal?” Mr. Clarkson protested; “a trifle—­what should I say?—­Oriental, perhaps?”

“She don’t know how hidjus she is,” the big man explained.  “No female don’t.”

“Nor no man neither, I should ’ope!” said Albert’s girl, and wriggling out of the encircling arm, she suddenly sprang up, put her hat straight, and forced her way towards the stage.