“Theatre?”
Otis Pilkington recovered his power of speech.
“Miss Mariner is rehearsing with a little play in which I am interested,” he explained.
Uncle Chris half rose from the settee. He blinked twice in rapid succession. Jill had never seen him so shaken from his customary poise.
“Don’t tell me you have gone on the stage, Jill!”
“I have. I’m in the chorus …”
“Ensemble,” corrected Mr Pilkington softly.
“I’m in the ensemble of a piece called ‘The Rose of America.’ We’ve been rehearsing for ever so long.”
Uncle Chris digested this information in silence for a moment. He pulled at his short mustache.
“Why, of course!” he said at length. Jill, who know him so well, could tell by the restored ring of cheeriness in his tone that he was himself again. He had dealt with this situation in his mind and was prepared to cope with it. The surmise was confirmed the next instant when he rose and stationed himself in front of the fire. Mr Pilkington detested steam-heat and had scoured the city till he had found a studio apartment with an open fireplace. Uncle Chris spread his legs and expanded his chest. “Of course,” he said. “I remember now that you told me in your letter that you were thinking of going on the stage. My niece,” explained Uncle Chris to the attentive Mr Pilkington, “came over from England on a later boat. I was not expecting her for some weeks. Hence my surprise at meeting her here. Of course. You told me that you intended to go on the stage, and I strongly recommended you to begin at the bottom of the ladder and learn the ground-work thoroughly before you attempted higher flights.”