There was a silence—as far, at least, as he and she were concerned. In the outer world, beyond the piece of scenery under whose shelter they stood, stirring things, loud and exciting things, seemed to be happening. Some sort of an argument appeared to be in progress. The rasping voice of Mr Goble was making itself heard from the unseen auditorium. These things they sensed vaguely, but they were too occupied with each other to ascertain details.
“What was the name of that place again?” asked Freddie. “The what-ho-something?”
“That’s the little chap! We’ll go there, shall we?”
“The food’s quite good. You go and help yourself out of slot-machines, you know.”
“My favorite indoor sport!” said Freddie with enthusiasm. “Hullo! What’s up? It sounds as if there were dirty work at the cross-roads!”
The voice of the assistant stage-manager was calling—sharply excited, agitation in every syllable.
“All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please! Mr Goble wants all the chorus—gentlemen on the stage!”
“Well, cheerio for the present,” said Freddie. “I suppose I’d better look into this.” He made his way onto the stage.
There is an insidious something about the atmosphere of a rehearsal of a musical play which saps the finer feelings of those connected with it. Softened by the gentle beauty of the Spring weather, Mr Goble had come to the Gotham Theatre that morning in an excellent temper, firmly intending to remain in an excellent temper all day. Five minutes of “The Rose of America” had sent him back to the normal: and at ten minutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar and glowering at the stage with all the sweetness gone from his soul. When Wally Mason arrived at a quarter past eleven and dropped into the seat beside him, the manager received him with a grunt and even omitted to offer him a cigar. And when a New York theatrical manager does that, it is a certain sign that his mood is of the worst.
One may find excuses for Mr Goble. “The Rose of America” would have tested the equanimity of a far more amiable man: and on Mr Goble what Otis Pilkington had called its delicate whimsicality jarred profoundly. He had been brought up in the lower-browed school of musical comedy, where you shelved the plot after the opening number and filled in the rest of the evening by bringing on the girls in a variety of exotic costumes, with some good vaudeville specialists to get the laughs. 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.