lking our best to
intrude themselves.

"As regards morals," resumed Wally, "that is a different matter. Most
managers are respectable, middle-aged men with wives and families.
They are in the business to make money, and they don't want anything
else out of it. The girls in their companies are like so many clerks
to them, just machines that help to bring the money in. They don't
know half a dozen of them to speak to. But our genial Ike is not like
that." Wally consumed a mouthful of sole. "Ike Goble is a bad citizen.
He paws! He's a slinker and a prowler and a leerer. He's a pest and a
worm! He's fat and soft and flabby. He has a greasy soul, a withered
heart, and an eye like a codfish. Not knocking him, of course!" added
Wally magnanimously. "Far be it from me to knock anyone! But, speaking
with the utmost respect and viewing him in the most favourable light,
he is a combination of tom-cat and the things you see when you turn
over a flat stone! Such are the reasons why I am sorry that you are in
his company."

Jill had listened to this diatribe with a certain uneasiness. Her
brief encounters with Mr. Goble told her that every word was probably
true. She could still feel the unpleasant sensation of being inspected
by the eye which Wally had compared--quite justly--to that of a
codfish. But her pride forbade any admission of weakness.

"I can take care of myself," she said.

"I don't doubt it," said Wally. "And you could probably take care of
yourself if you fell into a muddy pond. But I shouldn't like to stand
on the bank and watch you doing it. I know what girls in the chorus
have to go through. Hanging about for hours in draughts, doing
nothing, while the principals go through their scenes, and yelled at
if they try to relieve the tedium of captivity with a little light
conversation...."

"Yes," admitted Jill. "There has been a good lot of that."

"There always is. I believe if the stage-carpenter was going to stick
a screw in a flat, they would call a chorus-rehearsal to watch him do
it.... Jill, you must get out of it. It's no life for you. The
work...."

"I like the work."

"While it's new, perhaps, but...."

Jill interrupted him passionately.

"Oh, can't you understand!" she cried. "I want the work. I need it. I
want something to do, something to occupy my mind. I hate talking
about it, but you know how things are with me. Freddie must have told
you. Even if he didn't, you must have guessed, meeting m