This is the average income of an actor when working, but under present conditions, the average day for an average actress is one in which she looks for work.  So let us take the average day of the average actress, and see how she spends it.

After leaving her tiny, grubby back room in Bloomsbury (time and fares prohibit a bigger, better room in the suburbs), where she has cleaned her own shoes, ironed her blouse and sewn in frilling before starting, she walks down to an agent.  The waiting-room there has a couple of forms, which are already filled, and groups of girls have been standing for some time.  They have all had insufficient breakfasts, badly served and ill-cooked; they all wear cheap and uncomfortable shoes, too thin for wet pavements; they are all obliged to put on a desperately photographic pose and expression, in case the agent’s eyes light on them.  One or two, better dressed and more self-possessed, secure interviews and pass out by another door.  No information about the part is to be procured, they are all there “on the chance.”  At half past one the agent comes out for lunch, saying, as he passes through the room, “No use waiting, ladies; no one else wanted to-day.”  Our average friend has stayed for three hours, knowing no one to speak to, and leaves no nearer her goal for her morning’s congenial work.  She lunches on sandwiches and tea, re-arranges her hat and veil, and starts out with fresh hope to use her one letter of introduction to the manager of a West End theatre.

She hands it to a door-keeper, who may possibly be considerate, but cannot offer her a chair.  There is no waiting-room; she waits in a draughty, tiny passage, stage hands constantly squeezing by her.  There is a rehearsal; she must wait, or come back in an hour’s time.  She walks round and looks into the shops in Leicester Square, and returns thoroughly fatigued and a little pale, at four o’clock.  She is shown into an office, and by virtue of her letter of introduction is asked to sit down.  A few questions are put to her about her past work:  she does not know what part the manager has in mind, and puts forward inept qualifications.  In two or three minutes the important man has formed his opinion of her face, carriage, expression, and has decided if he will remember her or not.  Her name being average, the odds are that he will not; but he murmurs, “If anything turns up, I will let you know,” and her big chance is over.  There is nothing approaching an audition, such as a singer gets.  It is the only opportunity afforded her, this poor and hopeless method of proving her capacity as an actress.  It leaves her poorer for the day’s outlay in food.  She walks back to the little room, her foothold in London—­the great art market.

This is a “congenial” day’s work, which may be repeated for weeks, and it occurs on an average in every three months.  The adventure of it stales very quickly.

Let there be no mistake in the mind of the reader.  This is not only the experience of a would-be actress, a well-trained, medal-laden aspirant from one of the good dramatic schools, but is one of the bitter and frequent experiences of the thoroughly capable, trained, and occasionally well-salaried actress, who has failed to arrive, during her eighteen to twenty years of experience, at the much coveted, and supposedly safe position at the top of the theatrical ladder.