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Freddie Rooke and Ronny Devereux and the rest of her friends of the London period. All that was needed to complete the picture was a tea-table in front of her. The business note hardly intruded on the proceedings at all. Still, as business was the object of her visit, she felt that she had better approach it. "I came for work." "Work!" cried Mr. Pilkington. He, too, appeared to be regarding the interview as purely of a social nature. "In the chorus," explained Jill. Mr. Pilkington seemed shocked. He winced away from the word as though it pained him. "There is no chorus in 'The Rose of America,'" he said. "I thought it was a musical comedy." Mr. Pilkington winced again. "It is a musical _fantasy_!" he said. "But there will be no chorus. We shall have," he added, a touch of rebuke in his voice, "the services of twelve refined ladies of the ensemble." Jill laughed. "It does sound much better, doesn't it!" she said. "Well, am I refined enough, do you think?" "I shall be only too happy if you will join us," said Mr. Pilkington promptly. The long-haired composer looked doubtful. He struck a note up in the treble, then whirled round on his stool. "If you don't mind my mentioning it, Otie, we have twelve girls already." "Then we must have thirteen," said Otis Pilkington firmly. "Unlucky number," argued Mr. Trevis. "I don't care. We must have Miss Mariner. You can see for yourself that she is exactly the type we need." He spoke feelingly. Ever since the business of engaging a company had begun, he had been thinking wistfully of the evening when "The Rose of America" had had its opening performance--at his aunt's house at Newport last summer--with an all-star cast of society favourites and an ensemble recruited entirely from debutantes and matrons of the Younger Set. That was the sort of company he had longed to assemble for the piece's professional career, and until this afternoon he had met with nothing but disappointment. Jill seemed to be the only girl in theatrical New York who came up to the standard he would have liked to demand. "Thank you very much," said Jill. There was another pause. The social note crept into the atmosphere again. Jill felt the hostess' desire to keep conversation circulating. "I hear," she said, "that this piece is a sort of Gilbert and Sullivan opera." Mr. Pilkington considered the point. "I confess," he said, "that, in writing the book, I had Gi
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