“You remember the address? Nine East Forty-First Street. I have moved, you remember.”
“So that was why I couldn’t find you at the other place,” said Jill. “The man at the door said he had never heard of you.”
“Stupid idiot!” said Uncle Chris testily. “These New York hall-porters are recruited entirely from homes for the feeble-minded. I suppose he was a new man. Well, Pilkington, my boy, I shall expect you at seven o’clock. Goodbye till then. Come, Jill.”
“Good-bye, Mr Pilkington,” said Jill.
“Good-bye for the present, Miss Mariner,” said Mr Pilkington, bending down to take her hand. The tortoiseshell spectacles shot a last soft beam at her.
As the front door closed behind them, Uncle Chris heaved a sigh of relief.
“Whew! I think I handled that little contretemps with diplomacy! A certain amount of diplomacy, I think!”
“If you mean,” said Jill severely, “that you told some disgraceful fibs …”
“Fibs, my dear,—or shall we say, artistic mouldings of the unshapely clay of truth—are the … how shall I put it?… Well, anyway, they come in dashed handy. It would never have done for Mrs Peagrim to have found out that you were in the chorus. If she discovered that my niece was in the chorus, she would infallibly suspect me of being an adventurer. And while,” said Uncle Chris meditatively, “of course I am, it is nice to have one’s little secrets. The good lady has had a rooted distaste for girls in that perfectly honorable but maligned profession ever since our long young friend back there was sued for breach of promise by a member of a touring company in his sophomore year at college. We all have our prejudices. That is hers. However, I think we may rely on our friend to say nothing about the matter … But why did you do it? My dear child, whatever induced you to take such a step?”
Jill laughed.