“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 … yes,” he murmured vaguely. “Yes!”
“Well, there are thirteen here. Count ’em for yourself.” He whipped round on Jill. “What’s your name? Who engaged you?”
A croaking sound from the neighborhood of the ceiling indicated the clearing of Mr Pilkington’s throat.
“I—er—I engaged Miss Mariner, Mr Goble.”
“Oh, you engaged her?”
He stared again at Jill. The inspection was long and lingering, and affected Jill with a sense of being inadequately clothed. She returned the gaze as defiantly as she could, but her heart was beating fast. She had never yet beer frightened of any man, but there was something reptilian about this fat, yellow-haired individual which disquieted her; much as cockroaches had done in her childhood. A momentary thought flashed through her mind that it would be horrible to be touched by him. He looked soft and glutinous.
“All right,” said Mr Goble at last, after what seemed to Jill many minutes. He nodded to Mr Saltzburg. “Get on with it! And try working a little this time! I don’t hire you to give musical entertainments.”
“Yes, Mr Goble, yes. I mean no, Mr Goble!”