“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 favorites 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.