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There was a cloud upon Mr Goble's brow, seeming to indicate that his grievance against life had not yet been satisfactorily adjusted: but it passed as he saw Jill, and he came up to her with what he would probably have claimed to be an ingratiating smile. "Hello!" said Mr Goble. "All alone?" Jill was about to say that the condition was merely temporary when the manager went on.
At whatever hour of the day you happened to call, you would always find three wistful individuals seated side by side with their eyes on the tiny ante-room where sat the office-boy, the telephone-girl, and Mr Goble's stenographer.
"Come and have a bit of lunch." "Thank you very much," said Jill, with the politeness of dislike, "but I'm waiting for someone." "Chuck him!" advised Mr Goble cordially. "No, thanks, I couldn't, really." The cloud began to descend again upon Mr Goble's brow. He was accustomed to having these invitations of his treated as royal commands. "Come along!" "I'm afraid it's impossible."
He was working all the time, changing scenes, adding lines, tinkering with lyrics, smoothing over principals whose nerves had become strained by the incessant rehearsing, keeping within bounds Mr Goble's passion for being the big noise about the theatre. His cheerfulness was due to the spirit that was in him, and Jill appreciated it.
It was the latter's custom to leave the early rehearsals of the pieces with which he was connected to a subordinate producer, who did what Mr Goble called the breaking-in. This accomplished, he would appear in person, undo most of the other's work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read their lines, and generally enjoy himself. Producing plays was Mr Goble's hobby.
It was not remorse that caused him to weep, however. In the heat of the moment he had swallowed a large, jagged piece of candy, and he was suffering severely. "You can't go in there!" he managed to articulate, his iron will triumphing over the flesh sufficiently to enable him to speak. "I am going in there!" "That's Mr Goble's private room." "Well, I want a private talk with Mr Goble."
Well, to cut a long story short, Nelly Bryant told me that she and Jill were rehearsing with a piece called 'The Rose of America." "'The Rose of America!" "I think that was the name of it." "That's Ike Goble's show. He called me up on the phone about it half an hour ago. I promised to go and see a rehearsal of it tomorrow or the day after. And Jill's in that?" "Yes. How about it?
When Jill arrived at the theatre at four o'clock for the chorus rehearsal, the expected blow had not fallen. No steps had apparently been taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl whose presence in the cast preyed on Mr. Goble's superstitious mind. But she found her colleagues still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding. "Wait!" was the gloomy watchword of "The Rose of America" chorus.
And, as the Duchess had a habit of carrying her haughty languor onto the stage and employing it as a substitute for the chorea which was Mr. Miller's ideal, the dancer-director had chosen her. To Mr Goble's dislike of Jill, therefore, was added now something of the fury of the baffled potentate. "'Jer want?" he demanded. "Mr Goble is extremely busy," said the stage-director. "Ex-tremely."
When, finally, a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrival of Mr Goble and at the same time indicated Mr Goble's desire that the stage should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smile of recognition and a faint "What ho!" was all that Freddie was able to bestow upon Jill, before, with the rest of the ensemble, they had to go out and group themselves for the opening chorus.
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