The cherub looked at her curiously. Jill puzzled her. Jill had, indeed, been the subject of much private speculation among her colleagues.
“This is your first show, ithn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Thay, what are you doing in the chorus, anyway?”
“Getting scolded by Mr Miller mostly, it seems to me.”
“Thcolded by Mr Miller! Why didn’t you say ‘bawled out by Johnny?’ That’th what any of the retht of us would have said.”
“Well, I’ve lived most of my life in England. You can’t expect me to talk the language yet.”
“I thought you were English. You’ve got an acthent like the fellow who plays the dude in thith show. Thay, why did you ever get into the show business?”
“Well — well, why did you? Why does anybody?”
“Why did I? Oh, I belong there. I’m a regular Broadway rat. I wouldn’t be happy anywhere elthe. I was born in the show business. I’ve got two thithters in the two-a-day and a brother in thtock out in California and dad’s one of the betht comedians on the burlethque wheel. But any one can thee you’re different. There’s no reathon why you should be bumming around in the chorus.”
“But there is. I’ve no money, and I can’t do anything to make it.”
“Honetht?”
“Honest.”
“That’s tough.” The cherub pondered, her round eyes searching Jill’s face. “Why don’t you get married?”
Jill laughed.
“Nobody’s asked me.”
“Somebody thoon will. At least, if he’s on the level, and I think he is. You can generally tell by the look of a guy, and, if you ask me, friend Pilkington’s got the license in hith pocket and the ring all ordered and everything.”
“Pilkington!” cried Jill, aghast.
She remembered certain occasions during rehearsals, when, while the chorus idled in the body of the theatre and listened to the principals working at their scenes, the elongated Pilkington had suddenly appeared in the next seat and conversed sheepishly in a low voice. Could this be love? If so, it was a terrible nuisance. Jill had had her experience in London of enamoured young men who, running true to national form, declined to know when they were beaten, and she had not enjoyed the process of cooling their ardor. She had a kind heart, and it distressed her to give pain. It also got on her nerves to be dogged by stricken males who tried to catch her eye in order that she might observe their broken condition. She recalled one house-party in Wales where it rained all the time and she had been cooped up with a victim who kept popping out from obscure corners and beginning all his pleas with the words “I say, you know — !” She trusted that Otis Pilkington was not proposing to conduct a wooing on those lines. Yet he had certainly developed a sinister habit of popping out at the theatre. On several occasions he had startled her by appearing at her side as if he had come up out of a trap.
“Oh, no!” cried Jill.
“Oh, yeth!” insisted the cherub, waving imperiously to an approaching street-car. “Well, I must be getting uptown. I’ve got a date. Thee you later.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“I’m not.”
“But what makes you think so?”
The cherub placed a hand on the rail of the car, preparatory to swinging herself on board.
“Well, for one thing,” she said, “he’th been stalking you like an Indian ever since we left the theatre! Look behind you. Good-bye, honey. Thend me a piece of the cake!”
The street-car bore her away. The last that Jill saw of her was a wide and amiable grin. Then, turning, she beheld the snake-like form of Otis Pilkington towering at her side.
Mr Pilkington seemed nervous but determined. His face was half hidden by the silk scarf that muffled his throat, for he was careful of his health and had a fancied tendency to bronchial trouble. Above the scarf a pair of mild eyes gazed down at Jill through their tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. It was hopeless for Jill to try to tell herself that the tender gleam behind the glass was not the love-light in Otis Pilkington’s eyes. The truth was too obvious.