1.

　　Spring, whose coming the breeze had heralded to Wally as he smokedupon the roof, floated graciously upon New York two mornings later.

　　The city awoke to a day of blue and gold and to a sense of hard timesover and good times to come. In a million homes, a million young menthought of sunny afternoons at the Polo Grounds; a million youngwomen of long summer Sundays by the crowded waves of Coney Island. Inhis apartment on Park Avenue, Mr Isaac Goble, sniffing the gentle airfrom the window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his_Morning Telegraph_ with a resolve to walk to the theatre forrehearsal: a resolve which had also come to Jill and Nelly Bryant,eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house in the Forties. On thesummit of his sky-scraper, Wally Mason, performing Swedish exercisesto the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upperwindows of neighboring buildings, felt young and vigorous andoptimistic; and went in to his shower-bath thinking of Jill. And itwas of Jill, too, that young Mr Pilkington thought, as he propped hislong form up against the pillows and sipped his morning cup of tea.

　　He had not yet had an opportunity of inspecting the day for himself,but his Japanese valet, who had been round the corner for papers, hadspoken well of it; and even in his bedroom the sunlight falling onthe carpet gave some indication of what might be expected outside.

　　For the first time in several days a certain moodiness which hadaffected Otis Pilkington left him, and he dreamed happy daydreams.

　　The gaiety of Otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily dueto the improvement in the weather. It had its source in aconversation which had taken place between himself and Jill's UncleChris on the previous night. Exactly how it had come about, MrPilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fullyaware of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into Major Selby'ssympathetic ears the story of his romance. Encouraged by the other'skindly receptiveness, he had told him all--his love for Jill, hishopes that some day it might be returned, the difficultiescomplicating the situation owing to the known prejudices of MrsWaddesleigh Peagrim concerning girls who formed the personnel ofmusical comedy ensembles. To all these outpourings Major Selby hadlistened with keen attention, and finally had made one of thoseluminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd, which emanate onlyfrom your man of the world. It was Jill's girlish ambition, it seemedfrom Major Selby's statement, to become a force in the motion-pictureworld. The movies were her objective. When she had told him of this,said Uncle Chris, he had urged her, speaking in her best interests,to gain experience by joining in the humblest capacity the company ofsome good musical play, where she could learn from the best mastersso much of the technique of the business. That done, she could goabout her life-work, fortified and competent.

　　What, he broke off to ask, did Pilkington think of the idea?

　　Pilkington thought the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charmand looks, would be wonderful in the movies.

　　There was, said Uncle Chris, a future for a girl in the movies.

　　Mr Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future.

　　"Look at Mary Pickford!" said Uncle Chris. "Millions a year!"Mr Pilkington contemplated Miss Pickford, and agreed again. Heinstanced other stars--lesser luminaries, perhaps, but each with herthousands a week. There was no doubt about it--a girl's best friendwas the movies.

　　"Observe," proceeded Uncle Chris, gathering speed and expanding hischest as he spread his legs before the fire, "how it would simplifythe whole matter if Jill were to become a motion-picture artist andwin fame and wealth in her profession. And there can be no reasonabledoubt, my boy, that she would. As you say, with her appearance andher charm . . . Which of these women whose names you see all alongBroadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? Once started,with the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. Andthen. . . . Of course, as regards her feelings I cannot speak, as Iknow nothing of them, but we will assume that she is not indifferentto you . . . what then? You go to your excellent aunt and announcethat you are engaged to be married to Jill Mariner. There is amomentary pause. 'Not _the_ Jill Mariner?' falters Mrs Peagrim. 'Yes,the famous Miss Mariner!' you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy, can yousee her making an objection? Such a thing would be absurd. No, I canse no flaw in the project whatsoever." Here Uncle Chris, as he hadpictured Mrs Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "Of course, therewould be the preliminaries.""The preliminaries?"Uncle Chris' voice became a melodious coo. He beamed upon MrPilkington.

　　"Well, think for yourself, my boy! These things cannot be donewithout money. I do not propose to allow my niece to waste her timeand her energy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting yearsfor a chance that might never come. There is plenty of room at thetop, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the place tostart. If Jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a specialcompany must be formed to promote her. She must be made a feature, astar, from the beginning. That is why I have advised her to accepther present position temporarily, in order that she may gainexperience. She must learn to walk before she runs. She must studybefore she soars. But when the moment arrives for her to take thestep, she must not be hampered by lack of money. Whether," said UncleChris, smoothing the crease of his trousers, "you would wish to takeshares in the company yourself . . .""Oo . . . !"". . . is a matter," proceeded Uncle Chris, ignoring theinterruption, "for you yourself to decide. Possibly you have otherclaims on your purse. Possibly this musical play of yours has takenall the cash you are prepared to lock up. Possibly you may considerthe venture too speculative. Possibly . . . there are a hundredreasons why you may not wish to join us. But I know a dozen men--Ican go down Wall Street tomorrow and pick out twenty men--who will beglad to advance the necessary capital. I can assure you that Ipersonally shall not hesitate to risk--if one can call itrisking--any loose cash which I may have lying idle at my banker's."He rattled the loose cash which he had lying idle in histrouser-pocket--fifteen cents in all--and stopped to flick a piece offluff off his coat-sleeve. Mr Pilkington was thus enabled to insert aword.

　　"How much would you want?" he enquired.

　　"That," said Uncle Chris meditatively, "is a little hard to say. Ishould have to look into the matter more closely in order to give youthe exact figures. But let us say for the sake of argument that youput up--what shall we say?--a hundred thousand? fifty thousand? . . .

　　no, we will be conservative. Perhaps you had better not begin withmore than ten thousand. You can always buy more shares later. I don'tsuppose I shall begin with more than ten thousand myself.""I could manage ten thousand all right.""Excellent. We make progress, we make progress. Very well, then. I goto my Wall Street friends--I would give you their names, only for thepresent, till something definite has been done, that would hardly bepolitic--I go to my Wall Street friends, and tell them about thescheme, and say 'Here is ten thousand dollars! What is yourcontribution?' It puts the affair on a business-like basis, youunderstand. Then we really get to work. But use your own judgment myboy, you know. Use your own judgment. I would not think of persuadingyou to take such a step, if you felt at all doubtful. Think it over.

　　Sleep on it. And, whatever you decide to do, on no account say a wordabout it to Jill. It would be cruel to raise her hopes until we arecertain that we are in a position to enable her to realize them. And,of course, not a word to Mrs Peagrim.""Of course.""Very well, then, my boy." said Uncle Chris affably. "I will leaveyou to turn the whole thing over in your mind. Act entirely as youthink best. How is your insomnia, by the way? Did you try Nervino?

　　Capital! There's nothing like it. It did wonders for _me!_Good-night, good-night!"Otis Pilkington had been turning the thing over in his mind, with aninterval for sleep, ever since. And the more he thought of it, thebetter the scheme appeared to him. He winced a little at the thoughtof the ten thousand dollars, for he came of prudent stock and hadbeen brought up in habits of parsimony, but, after all, he reflected,the money would be merely a loan. Once the company found its feet, itwould be returned to him a hundred-fold. And there was no doubt thatthis would put a completely different aspect on his wooing of Jill,as far as his Aunt Olive was concerned. Why, a cousin of his--youngBrewster Philmore--had married a movie-star only two years ago, andnobody had made the slightest objection. Brewster was to be seen withhis bride frequently beneath Mrs Peagrim's roof. Against the higherstrata of Bohemia Mrs Peagrim had no prejudice at all. Quite thereverse, in fact. She liked the society of those whose names wereoften in the papers and much in the public mouth. It seemed to OtisPilkington, in short, that Love had found a way. He sipped his teawith relish, and when the Japanese valet brought in the toast allburned on one side, chided him with a gentle sweetness which, one mayhope, touched the latter's Oriental heart and inspired him with adesire to serve this best of employers more efficiently.

　　At half-past ten, Otis Pilkington removed his dressing-gown and beganto put on his clothes to visit the theatre. There was arehearsal-call for the whole company at eleven. As he dressed, hismood was as sunny as the day itself.

　　And the day, by half-past ten, was as sunny as ever Spring day hadbeen in a country where Spring comes early and does its best from thevery start, The blue sky beamed down on a happy city. To and fro thecitizenry bustled, aglow with the perfection of the weather.

　　Everywhere was gaiety and good cheer, except on the stage of theGotham Theatre, where an early rehearsal, preliminary to the mainevent, had been called by Johnson Miller in order to iron some of thekinks out of the "My Heart and I" number, which, with the assistanceof the male chorus, the leading lady was to render in act one.

　　On the stage of the Gotham gloom reigned--literally, because thestage was wide and deep and was illumined only by a single electriclight: and figuratively, because things were going even worse thanusual with the "My Heart and I" number, and Johnson Miller, always ofan emotional and easily stirred temperament, had been goaded by theincompetence of his male chorus to a state of frenzy. At about themoment when Otis Pilkington shed his flowered dressing-gown andreached for his trousers (the heather-mixture with the red twill),Johnson Miller was pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit andthe first row of the orchestra chairs, waving one hand and clutchinghis white locks with the other, his voice raised the while inagonized protest.

　　"Gentlemen, you silly idiots," complained Mr Miller loudly, "you'vehad three weeks to get these movements into your thick heads, and youhaven't done a damn thing right! You're all over the place! You don'tseem able to turn without tumbling over each other like a lot ofKeystone Kops! What's the matter with you? You're not doing themovements I showed you; you're doing some you have inventedyourselves, and they are rotten! I've no doubt you think you canarrange a number better than I can, but Mr Goble engaged me to be thedirector, so kindly do exactly as I tell you. Don't try to use yourown intelligence, because you haven't any. I'm not blaming you forit. It wasn't your fault that your nurses dropped you on your headswhen you were babies. But it handicaps you when you try to think."Of the seven gentlemanly members of the male ensemble present, sixlooked wounded by this tirade. They had the air of good menwrongfully accused. They appeared to be silently calling on Heaven tosee justice done between Mr. Miller and themselves. The seventh, along-legged young man in faultlessly-fitting tweeds of English cut,seemed, on the other hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. It wasthis youth who now stepped down to the darkened footlights and spokein a remorseful and conscience-stricken manner.

　　"I say!"Mr Miller, that martyr to deafness, did not hear the pathetic bleat.

　　He had swung off at right angles and was marching in an overwroughtway up the central aisle leading to the back of the house, his indiarubber form moving in convulsive jerks. Only when he had turned andretraced his steps did he perceive the speaker and prepare to takehis share in the conversation.

　　"What?" he shouted. "Can't hear you!""I say, you know, it's my fault, really.""What?""I mean to say, you know . . .""What? Speak up, can't you?"Mr Saltzburg, who had been seated at the piano, absently playing amelody from his unproduced musical comedy, awoke to the fact that theservices of an interpreter were needed. He obligingly left themusic-stool and crept, crablike, along the ledge of the stage-box. Heplaced his arm about Mr Miller's shoulders and his lips to MrMiller's left ear, and drew a deep breath.

　　"He says it is his fault!"Mr Miller nodded adhesion to this admirable sentiment.

　　"I know they're not worth their salt!" he replied.

　　Mr Saltzburg patiently took in a fresh stock of breath.

　　"This young man says it is his fault that the movement went wrong!""Tell him I only signed on this morning, laddie," urged thetweed-clad young man.

　　"He only joined the company this morning!"This puzzled Mr Miller.

　　"How do you mean, warning?" he asked.

　　Mr Saltzburg, purple in the face, made a last effort.

　　"This young man is new," he bellowed carefully, keeping to words ofone syllable. "He does not yet know the steps. He says this is hisfirst day here, so he does not yet know the steps. When he has beenhere some more time he will know the steps. But now he does not knowthe steps.""What he means," explained the young man in tweeds helpfully, "isthat I don't know the steps.""He does not know the steps!" roared Mr Saltzburg.

　　"I know he doesn't know the steps," said Mr Miller. "Why doesn't heknow the steps? He's had long enough to learn them.""He is new!""Hugh?""New!""Oh, new?""Yes, new!""Why the devil is he new?" cried Mr Miller, awaking suddenly to thetruth and filled with a sense of outrage. "Why didn't he join withthe rest of the company? How can I put on chorus numbers if I amsaddled every day with new people to teach? Who engaged him?""Who engaged you?" enquired Mr Saltzburg of the culprit.

　　"Mr Pilkington.""Mr Pilkington," shouted Mr Saltzburg.

　　"When?""When?""Last night.""Last night."Mr Miller waved his hands in a gesture of divine despair, spun round,darted up the aisle, turned, and bounded back. "What can I do?" hewailed. "My hands are tied! I am hampered! I am handicapped! We openin two weeks, and every day I find somebody new in the company toupset everything I have done. I shall go to Mr Goble and ask to bereleased from my contract. I shall . . . Come along, come along, comealong now!" he broke off suddenly. "Why are we wasting time? Thewhole number once more. The whole number once more from thebeginning!"The young man tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running afinger in an agitated manner round the inside of his collar. He wasnot used to this sort of thing. In a large experience of amateurtheatricals he had never encountered anything like it. In thebreathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse andrefrain by the lady who played the heroine of "The Rose of America,"he found time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right.

　　"I say! Is he always like this?""Who? Johnny?""The sportsman with the hair that turned white in a single night. Thebarker on the skyline. Does he often get the wind up like this?"His colleague smiled tolerantly.

　　"Why, that's nothing!" he replied. "Wait till you see him really cutloose! That was just a gentle whisper!""My God!" said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. The leadinglady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of theensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimblydown towards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on hisnearest neighbor, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. Aclapping of hands from the dark auditorium indicated--inappropriately--that he had failed to do so. Mr Miller could be perceived--dimly--with all his fingers entwined in his hair.

　　"Clear the stage!" yelled Mr Miller. "Not you!" he shouted, as thelatest addition to the company began to drift off with the others.

　　"You stay!""Me?""Yes, you. I shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or weshall get nowhere. Go on-stage. Start the music again, Mr Saltzburg.

　　Now, when the refrain begins, come down. Gracefully! Gracefully!"The young man, pink but determined, began to come down gracefully.

　　And it was while he was thus occupied that Jill and Nelly Bryant,entering the wings which were beginning to fill up as eleven o'clockapproached, saw him.

　　"Whoever is that?" said Nelly.

　　"New man," replied one of the chorus gentlemen. "Came this morning."Nelly turned to Jill.

　　"He looks just like Mr Rooke!" she exclaimed.

　　"He _is_ Mr Rooke!" said Jill.

　　"He can't be!""He _is_!""But what is he doing here?"Jill bit her lip.

　　"That's just what I'm going to ask him myself," she said.

　　2.

　　The opportunity for a private conversation with Freddie did not occurimmediately. For ten minutes he remained alone on the stage,absorbing abusive tuition from Mr Miller: and at the end of thatperiod a further ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsing of thenumber with the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. When,finally, a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrivalof Mr Goble and at the same time indicated Mr Goble's desire that thestage should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smileof recognition and a faint "What ho!" was all that Freddie was ableto bestow upon Jill, before, with the rest of the _ensemble_, theyhad to go out and group themselves for the opening chorus. It wasonly when this had been run through four times and the stage leftvacant for two of the principals to play a scene that Jill was ableto draw the Last of the Rookes aside in a dark corner and put him tothe question.

　　"Freddie, what are you doing here?"Freddie mopped his streaming brow. Johnson Miller's idea of anopening chorus was always strenuous. On the present occasion, theensemble were supposed to be guests at a Long Island house-party, andMr Miller's conception of the gathering suggested that he supposedhouse-party guests on Long Island to consist exclusively of victimsof St Vitus' dance. Freddie was feeling limp, battered, and.

　　exhausted: and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come.

　　"Eh?" he said feebly.

　　"What are you doing here?""Oh, ah, yes! I see what you mean! I suppose you're surprised to findme in New York, what?""I'm not surprised to find you in New York. I knew you had come over.

　　But I am surprised to find you on the stage, being bullied by MrMiller.""I say," said Freddie in an awed voice. "He's a bit of a nut, thatlad, what! He reminds me of the troops of Midian in the hymn. Thechappies who prowled and prowled around. I'll bet he's worn a groovein the carpet. Like a jolly old tiger at the Zoo at feeding time.

　　Wouldn't be surprised at any moment to look down and find him bitinga piece out of my leg!"Jill seized his arm and shook it.

　　"Don't _ramble_, Freddie! Tell me how you got here.""Oh, that was pretty simple. I had a letter of introduction to thischappie Pilkington who's running this show, and, we having gottolerably pally in the last few days, I went to him and asked him tolet me join the merry throng. I said I didn't want any money and thelittle bit of work I would do wouldn't make any difference, so hesaid 'Right ho!' or words to that effect, and here I am.""But why? You can't be doing this for fun, surely?""Fun!" A pained expression came into Freddie's face. "My idea of funisn't anything in which jolly old Miller, the bird with the snowyhair, is permitted to mix. Something tells me that that lad is goingto make it his life-work picking on me. No, I didn't do this for fun.

　　I had a talk with Wally Mason the night before last, and he seemed tothink that being in the chorus wasn't the sort of thing you ought tobe doing, so I thought it over and decided that I ought to join thetroupe too. Then I could always be on the spot, don't you know, ifthere was any trouble. I mean to say, I'm not much of a chap and allthat sort of thing, but still I might come in handy one of thesetimes. Keep a fatherly eye on you, don't you know, and what not!"Jill was touched.

　　"You're a dear, Freddie!""I thought, don't you know, it would make poor old Derek a bit easierin his mind."Jill froze.

　　"I don't want to talk about Derek, Freddie, please.""Oh, I know what you must be feeling. Pretty sick, I'll bet, what?

　　But if you could see him now . . .""I don't want to talk about him!""He's pretty cut up, you know. Regrets bitterly and all that sort ofthing. He wants you to come back again.""I see! He sent you to fetch me?""That was more or less the idea.""It's a shame that you had all the trouble. You can getmessenger-boys to go anywhere and do anything nowadays. Derek oughtto have thought of that."Freddie looked at her doubtfully.

　　"You're spoofing, aren't you? I mean to say, you wouldn't have likedthat!""I shouldn't have disliked it any more than his sending you.""Oh, but I wanted to pop over. Keen to see America and so forth."Jill looked past him at the gloomy stage. Her face was set, and hereyes sombre.

　　"Can't you understand, Freddie? You've known me a long time. I shouldhave thought that you would have found out by now that I have acertain amount of pride. If Derek wanted me back, there was only onething for him to do--come over and find me himself.""Rummy! That's what Mason said, when I told him. You two don'trealize how dashed busy Derek is these days.""Busy!"Something in her face seemed to tell Freddie that he was not sayingthe right thing, but he stumbled on.

　　"You've no notion how busy he is. I mean to say, elections coming onand so forth. He daren't stir from the metrop.""Of course I couldn't expect him to do anything that might interferewith his career, could I?""Absolutely not. I knew you would see it!" said Freddie, charmed ather reasonableness. All rot, what you read about women beingunreasonable. "Then I take it it's all right, eh?""All right?""I mean you will toddle home with me at the earliest opp. and makepoor old Derek happy?"Jill laughed discordantly.

　　"Poor old Derek!" she echoed. "He has been badly treated, hasn't he?""Well, I wouldn't say that," said Freddie doubtfully. "You see,coming down to it, the thing was more or less his fault, what?""More or less!""I mean to say . . .""More or less!"Freddie glanced at her anxiously. He was not at all sure now that heliked the way she was looking or the tone in which she spoke. He wasnot a keenly observant young man, but there did begin at this pointto seep through to his brain-centers a suspicion that all was notwell.

　　"Let me pull myself together!" said Freddie warily to his immortalsoul. "I believe I'm getting the raspberry!" And there was silencefor a space.

　　The complexity of life began to weigh upon Freddie. Life was like oneof those shots at squash which seem so simple till you go to knockthe cover off the ball, when the ball sort of edges away from you andyou miss it. Life, Freddie began to perceive, was apt to have a nastyback-spin on it. He had never had any doubt when he had started, thatthe only difficult part of his expedition to America would be thefinding of Jill. Once found, he had presumed that she would bedelighted to hear his good news and would joyfully accompany him homeon the next boat. It appeared now, however, that he had been toosanguine. Optimist as he was, he had to admit that, as far as couldbe ascertained with the naked eye, the jolly old binge might be saidto have sprung a leak.

　　He proceeded to approach the matter from another angle.

　　"I say!""Yes?""You do love old Derek, don't you? I mean to say, you know what Imean, _love_ him and all that sort of rot?""I don't know!""You don't know! Oh, I say, come now! You must _know!_ Pull up yoursocks, old thing . . . I mean, pull yourself together! You eitherlove a chappie or you don't."Jill smiled painfully.

　　"How nice it would be if everything were as simple andstraightforward as that. Haven't you ever heard that the dividingline between love and hate is just a thread? Poets have said so agreat number of times.""Oh, poets!" said Freddie, dismissing the genus with a wave of thehand. He had been compelled to read Shakespeare and all that sort ofthing at school, but it had left him cold, and since growing to man'sestate he had rather handed the race of bards the mitten. He likedDoss Chiderdoss' stuff in the _Sporting Times_, but beyond that hewas not much of a lad for poets.

　　"Can't you understand a girl in my position not being able to make upher mind whether she loves a man or despises him?"Freddie shook his head.

　　"No," he said. "It sounds dashed silly to me!""Then what's the good of talking?" cried Jill. "It only hurts.""But--won't you come back to England?""No.""Oh, I say! Be a sport! Take a stab at it!"Jill laughed again--another of those grating laughs which afflictedFreddie with a sense of foreboding and failure. Something hadundoubtedly gone wrong with the works. He began to fear that at somepoint in the conversation--just where he could not say--he had beenless diplomatic than he might have been.

　　"You speak as if you were inviting me to a garden-party! No, I won'ttake a stab at it. You've a lot to learn about women, Freddie!""Women _are_ rum!" conceded that perplexed ambassador.

　　Jill began to move away.

　　"Don't go!" urged Freddie.

　　"Why not? What's the use of talking any more? Have you ever broken anarm or a leg, Freddie?""Yes," said Freddie, mystified. "As a matter of fact, my last year atOxford, playing soccer for the college in a friendly game, someblighter barged into me and I came down o............