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