“We hope so,” said Mr Pilkington. “We feel that the time has come when the public is beginning to demand something better than what it has been accustomed to. People are getting tired of the brainless trash and jingly tunes which have been given them by men like Wallace Mason and George Bevan. They want a certain polish. … It was just the same in Gilbert and Sullivan’s day. They started writing at a time when the musical stage had reached a terrible depth of inanity. The theatre was given over to burlesques of the most idiotic description. The public was waiting eagerly to welcome something of a higher class. It is just the same today. But the managers will not see it. ‘The Rose of America’ went up and down Broadway for months, knocking at managers’ doors.”
“It should have walked in without knocking, like me,” said Jill. She got up. “Well, it was very kind of you to see me when I came in so unceremoniously. But I felt it was no good waiting outside on that landing. I’m so glad everything is settled. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Miss Mariner.” Mr Pilkington took her outstretched hand devoutly. “There is a rehearsal called for the ensemble at—when is it, Rolie?”
“Eleven o’clock, day after tomorrow, at Bryant Hall.”
“I’ll be there,” said Jill. “Good-bye, and thank you very much.”
The silence which had fallen upon the room as she left it, was broken by Mr Trevis.
“Some pip!” observed Mr Trevis.
Otis Pilkington awoke from day-dreams with a start.
“What did you say?”
“That girl … I said she was some pippin!”