hell you do!" said the voice. "Say, what is this, anyway? A
concert?"

Mr. Saltzburg swung round on the music-stool, a startled and
apprehensive man, and nearly fell off it. The divine afflatus left him
like air oozing from a punctured toy-balloon, and, like such a
balloon, he seemed to grow suddenly limp and flat. He stared with
fallen jaw at the new arrival.

Two men had entered the room. One was the long Mr. Pilkington. The
other, who looked shorter and stouter than he really was beside his
giraffe-like companion, was a thick-set, fleshy man in the early
thirties with a blond, clean-shaven, double-chinned face. He had
smooth, yellow hair an unwholesome complexion, and light green eyes,
set close together. From the edge of the semi-circle about the piano,
he glared menacingly over the heads of the chorus at the unfortunate
Mr. Saltzburg.

"Why aren't these girls working?"

Mr. Saltzburg, who had risen nervously from his stool, backed away
apprehensively from his gaze, and, stumbling over the stool, sat down
abruptly on the piano, producing a curious noise like Futurist music.

"I--We--Why, Mr. Goble...."

Mr. Goble turned his green gaze on the concert audience, and spread
discomfort as if it were something liquid which he was spraying
through a hose. The girls who were nearest looked down flutteringly at
their shoes: those further away concealed themselves behind their
neighbours. Even the duchess, who prided herself on being the
possessor of a stare of unrivalled haughtiness, before which the fresh
quailed and those who made breaks subsided in confusion, was unable to
meet his eyes: and the willowy friend of Izzy, for all her victories
over that monarch of the hat-checks, bowed before it like a slim tree
before a blizzard.

Only Jill returned the manager's gaze. She was seated on the outer rim
of the semi-circle, and she stared frankly at Mr. Goble. She had never
seen anything like him before, and he fascinated her. This behaviour
on her part singled her out from the throng, and Mr. Goble
concentrated his attention on her.

For some seconds he stood looking at her; then, raising a stubby
finger, he let his eye travel over the company, and seemed to be
engrossed in some sort of mathematical calculation.

"Thirteen," he said at length. "I make it thirteen." He rounded on Mr.
Pilkington. "I told you we were going to have a chorus of twelve."

Mr. Pilkington blushed and stumbled over his feet.

"Ah, yes .