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Updated: May 2, 2025
"Perhaps. But we're quite unanimous." Mr Goble, like most theatrical managers, was not good at words of over two syllables. "You're what?" "We've talked it over, and we've all decided to do what I said." Mr Goble's hat shot off again, and gambolled away into the wings, with the stage-director bounding after it like a retriever. "Whose idea's this?" demanded Mr Goble.
"Ever played a part before?" "Part? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, in amateur theatricals, you know, and all that sort of rot." His words were music to Mr Goble's ears. He felt that his Napoleonic action had justified itself by success. His fury left him. If he had been capable of beaming, one would have said that he beamed at Freddie. "Well, you play the part of Lord Finchley from now on.
"Well, you see," said Jill, "I forgot to tell you before, but I own the piece!" Mr Goble's jaw fell. He had been waving his hands in another spacious gesture, and he remained frozen with out-stretched arms, like a semaphore. This evening had been a series of shocks for him, but this was the worst shock of all. "You what!" he stammered. "I own the piece," repeated Jill.
Mr Goble's idea of a musical piece was something embracing trained seals, acrobats, and two or three teams of skilled buck-and-wing dancers, with nothing on the stage, from a tree to a lamp-shade, which could not suddenly turn into a chorus-girl. The austere legitimateness of "The Rose of America" gave him a pain in the neck. He loathed plot, and "The Rose of America" was all plot.
"Wait a minute," said Wally. "Wait one minute! Bright as it is, that idea is out!" "What the devil has it got to do with you?" "Only this, that, if you fire Miss Mariner, I take that neat script which I've prepared and I tear it into a thousand fragments. Or nine hundred. Anyway, I tear it. Miss Mariner opens in New York, or I pack up my work and leave." Mr Goble's green eyes glowed.
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