“Then we must have thirteen,” said Otis Pilkington firmly.
“I don’t care. We must have Miss Mariner. You can see for yourself that she is exactly the type we need.”
He spoke feelingly. Ever since the business of engaging a company had begun, he had been thinking wistfully of the evening when “The Rose of America” had had its opening performance—at his aunt’s house at Newport last Summer—with an all-star cast of society favorites and an ensemble recruited entirely from debutantes and matrons of the Younger Set. That was the sort of company he had longed to assemble for the piece’s professional career, and until this afternoon he had met with nothing but disappointment. Jill seemed to be the only girl in theatrical New York who came up to the standard he would have liked to demand.
There was another pause. The social note crept into the atmosphere again. Jill felt the hostess’ desire to keep conversation circulating.
“I hear,” she said, “that this piece is a sort of Gilbert and Sullivan opera.”
“I confess,” he said, “that, in writing the book, I had Gilbert before me as a model. Whether I have in any sense succeeded in …”
“The book,” said Mr Trevis, running his fingers over the piano, “is as good as anything Gilbert ever wrote.”
“Oh come, Rolie!” protested Mr Pilkington modestly.
“Better,” insisted Mr Trevis. “For one thing, it is up-to-date.”
“I _do_ try to strike the modern tone,” murmured Mr Pilkington.
“And you have avoided Gilbert’s mistake of being too fanciful.”
“He was fanciful,” admitted Mr Pilkington. “The music,” he added, in a generous spirit of give and take, “has all Sullivan’s melody with a newness of rhythm peculiarly its own. You will like the music.”
“It sounds,” said Jill amiably, “as though the piece is bound to be a tremendous success.”
“We hope so,” said Mr Pilkington. “We feel that the time has come when the public is beginning to demand something better than what it has been accustomed to. People are getting tired of the brainless trash and jingly tunes which have been given them by men like Wallace Mason and George Bevan. They want a certain polish. … It was just the same in Gilbert and Sullivan’s day. They started writing at a time when the musical stage had reached a terrible depth of inanity. The theatre was given over to burlesques of the most idiotic description. The public was waiting eagerly to welcome something of a higher class. It is just the same today. But the managers will not see it. ‘The Rose of America’ went up and down Broadway for months, knocking at managers’ doors.”