heard
that a superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. It's a ruthless
business."

"The girls were saying that one of us would be dismissed."

"Oh, I shouldn't think that's likely."

"I hope not."

"So do I. What are we stopping for?"

Jill had halted in front of a shabby-looking house, one of those
depressing buildings which spring up overnight at seashore resorts and
start to decay the moment the builders have left them.

"I live here."

"Here?" Wally looked at her in consternation. "But...."

Jill smiled.

"We working-girls have got to economize. Besides, it's quite
comfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week."
She yawned. "I believe I'm falling asleep again. I'd better hurry in
and go to bed. Good-bye, Wally dear. You've been wonderful. Mind you
go and get a good breakfast."

II

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.

The rehearsal passed off without event. It lasted until six o'clock,
when Jill, the Cherub, and two or three of the other girls went to
snatch a hasty dinner before returning to the theatre to make up. It
was not a cheerful meal. Reaction had set in after the over-exertion
of the previous night, and it was too early for first-night excitement
to take its place. Everybody, even the Cherub, whose spirits seldom
failed her, was depressed, and the idea of an overhanging doom had
grown. It seemed now to be merely a question of speculating on the
victim, and the conversation gave Jill, as the last addition to the
company, and so the cause of swelling the ranks of the chorus to the
unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. She was glad when it was time to
go back to the theatre.

The moment she and her companions entered the dressing-room, it was
made clear to them that the doom had fallen. In a chair in the corner,
all her pretence and affectation swept away in a flood of tears, sat
the unhappy Duchess, the centre of a group of girls anxious to
console, but limited in their ideas of consolation to an occasional
pat on the back and an offer of a fresh pocket-handkerchief.

"It's tough, honey!" somebody was saying as Jill