The Little Warrior

from his customary poise.

“Don't tell me you have gone on the stage, Jill!”

“I have. I'm in the chorus —”

“Ensemble,” corrected Mr Pilkington softly.

“I'm in the ensemble of a piece called 'The Rose of America.' We've been rehearsing for ever so long.”

Uncle Chris digested this information in silence for a moment. He pulled at his short mustache.

“Why, of course!” he said at length. Jill, who know him so well, could tell by the restored ring of cheeriness in his tone that he was himself again. He had dealt with this situation in his mind and was prepared to cope with it. The surmise was confirmed the next instant when he rose and stationed himself in front of the fire. Mr Pilkington detested steam-heat and had scoured the city till he had found a studio apartment with an open fireplace. Uncle Chris spread his legs and expanded his chest. “Of course,” he said. “I remember now that you told me in your letter that you were thinking of going on the stage. My niece,” explained Uncle Chris to the attentive Mr Pilkington, “came over from England on a later boat. I was not expecting her for some weeks. Hence my surprise at meeting her here. Of course. You told me that you intended to go on the stage, and I strongly recommended you to begin at the bottom of the ladder and learn the ground-work thoroughly before you attempted higher flights.”

“Oh, that was it?” said Mr Pilkington. He had been wondering.

“There is no finer training,” resumed Uncle Chris, completely at his ease once more, “than the chorus. How many of the best-known actresses in America began in that way! Dozens. Dozens. If I were giving advice to any young girl with theatrical aspirations, I should say 'Begin in the chorus!' On the other hand,” he proceeded, turning to Pilkington, “I think it would be just as well if you would not mention the fact of my niece being in that position to Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim. She might not understand.”

“Exactly,” assented Mr Pilkington.

“The term 'chorus'—”

“I dislike it intensely myself.”

“It suggests —”

“Precisely.”

Uncle Chris inflated his chest again, well satisfied.

“Capital!” he said. “Well, I only dropped in to remind you, my boy, that you and your aunt are dining with me tonight. I was afraid a busy man like you might forget.”

“I was looking forward to it,” said Mr Pilkington, charmed at the description.

“You remember the address? Nine East Forty-First Street. I have moved, you remember.”

“So that was why I couldn't find you at the other place,” said Jill. “The man at the door said he had never heard of you.”

“Stupid idiot!” said Uncle Chris testily. “These New York hall-porters are recruited entirely from homes for the feeble-minded. I suppose he was a new man. Well, Pilkington, my boy, I shall expect you at seven o'clock. Goodbye till then. Come, Jill.”

“Good-bye, Mr Pilkington,” said Jill.

“Good-bye for the present, Miss Mariner,” said Mr Pilkington, bending down to take her hand. The tortoiseshell spectacles shot a last soft beam at her.

As the front door closed behind them, Uncle Chris heaved a sigh of relief.

“Whew! I think I handled that little contretemps with diplomacy! A certain amount of diplomacy, I think!”

“If you mean,” said Jill severely, “that you told some disgraceful fibs —”

“Fibs, my dear,—or shall we say, artistic mouldings of the unshapely clay of truth—are the — how shall I put it?— Well, anyway, they come in dashed handy. It would never have done for Mrs Peagrim to have found out that you were in the chorus. If she discovered that my niece was in the chorus, she would infallibly suspect me of being an adventurer. And while,” said Uncle Chris meditatively, “of course I am, it is nice to have one's little secrets. The good lady has had a rooted distaste for girls in that perfectly honorable but maligned profession ever since our long young friend back there was sued for breach of promise by a member of a touring company in his sophomore year at college. We all have our prejudices. That is hers. However, I think we may rely on our friend to say nothing about the matter — But why did you do it? My dear child, whatever induced you to take such a step?”

Jill laughed.

“That's practically what Mr Miller said to me when we were rehearsing one of the dances this afternoon, only he put it differently.” She linked her arm in his. “What else could I do? I was alone in New York with the remains of that twenty dollars you sent me and no more in sight.”

“But why didn't you stay down at Brookport with your Uncle Elmer?”

“Have you ever seen my Uncle Elmer?”

“No. Curiously enough, I never have.”

“If you had, you wouldn't ask. Brookport! Ugh! I left when they tried to get me to understudy the hired man, who had resigned.”

“What!”

“Yes, they got tired of supporting me in the state to which I was accustomed—I don't blame them!—so they began to find ways of making me useful about the home. I didn't mind reading to Aunt Julia, and I could just stand taking Tibby for walks. But, when it came to shoveling snow, I softly and silently vanished away.”

“But I can't understand all this. I suggested to your uncle—diplomatically—that you had large private