II
Very Short, and Devoted to Rehearsals
Inigo seemed to spend all his waking hours, the next few days, on the improvised stage at the Rawsley Assembly Rooms, pounding away on the ancient Broadwood Grand. Two of the notes, the first G in the treble and the lower D in the bass, were in the habit of sticking and even by the end of the first day he had come to know those two notes so well that they had taken on a personal life of their own, so that he appeared to have spent hours quarrelling with two obstinate little yellow men: Tweedlegee and Twoodledee, he called them. His wrists and forearms began aching by about twelve on Friday morning, and after that‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough Sunday was a holiday‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey went on aching until at last he forgot to notice them. It did not matter whether the Good Companions sang choruses, quartets, trios, duets, or individual numbers, he had to be at work. And if they stopped singing and took to dancing instead, then he had to work all the harder. For him there was no rest. Each member of the troupe prided himself or herself on having a large repertoire, known always as a ‚Äúrep,‚Äù and insisted on going through it at some time or other with the new pianist, who soon began to dislike the very mention of ‚Äúreps.‚Äù
‚ÄúI never knew there were so many dirty tattered old sheets of music left in the world,‚Äù Inigo confided to Miss Trant. This was after he had struggled through Jimmy Nunn‚Äôs rep, which was the dirtiest, oldest, and most tattered of all. Many of Jimmy‚Äôs songs, which did little more than announce that their singer was a policeman (‚ÄúWhen you‚Äôre going down the street. / You will see me on my beat / For I‚Äôm a Policeman‚ÅÝ‚Äîpom‚ÅÝ‚Äî / Yes, I‚Äôm a Policeman‚Äù) or a postman or a waiter or some other droll public character, were in manuscript, and were further complicated by instructions scrawled in in pencil‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúStop for patter,‚Äù and so forth. Fortunately it did not matter very much what he played for Jimmy, who had no ear and no singing voice, and only demanded that the accompaniment should stop in various odd places in order that he should be able to point out that his father was a very mean man, or describe, with a wealth of unlikely detail, his wedding day. Indeed, the relation between Jimmy‚Äôs singing and the piano was so vague that he had sung a whole verse of a policeman song to the accompaniment intended for a postman before either he or Inigo had noticed the mistake. ‚ÄúHave to use the old uns, my boy,‚Äù said Jimmy, carefully removing from the piano a sheet that was dropping to pieces. ‚ÄúThey don‚Äôt write real comic songs now, you can take it from me.‚Äù And Inigo was quite ready to agree that these masterpieces had obviously been written a great many years ago. His only hope was that he would be able to vamp the accompaniments by heart before most of the scores crumbled away altogether.
The respective reps of the two Brundits were in rather better condition than Jimmy‚Äôs, being mostly composed of well-printed ballads, but they were far larger, especially Mrs.¬ÝJoe‚Äôs, a very stout portfolio with ‚ÄúMiss Stella Cavendish‚Äù printed on it in scarlet letters. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think there‚Äôs a bigger and classier rep on the C.P. stage today,‚Äù she told him proudly. But it was not necessary to go through it all. Inigo was a quick reader and found this easy ballad stuff mere child‚Äôs play. After Mrs.¬ÝJoe, with flashing eye and heaving bosom, had tunefully cautioned a son o‚Äô hers against doing something or other, had suggested that the roses in her heart would never bloom again like the roses in her garden, had commanded the red sun to sink in-toe the We‚Äôest, had waited for one Angus MacDonald to return from some mysterious campaign, had said goodbye to leaves and trees and kisses on the brow and practically everything, and had finally announced that she must go down to the sea again; in short, after Mrs.¬ÝJoe had tried over about half a dozen of her most popular numbers, she expressed herself as being not only satisfied but delighted, mopped her face with one hand and patted Inigo on the shoulder with the other, and told him he was a pianist with a touch, a talent, a soul, and in short was a downright find. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got just the style for me, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù she cried warmly, and asked everybody present to agree with her. Inigo, who had been quietly enjoying himself by indulging in an ironical overemphasis, looked round to see that Miss Susie Dean, who was standing near, was regarding him with a cool and speculative eye. At once the praise of the simple songstress made him feel uncomfortable. He glanced apologetically towards Susie‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe thought of her now as Susie‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut that young lady immediately tilted her nose a little higher than usual and looked away. Inigo then came to the conclusion that he was not such a clever young man as he had imagined himself to be.
Joe gave Inigo more trouble than Mrs.¬ÝJoe had done, though his rep was neither so big nor so classy. ‚ÄúJoe‚Äôs got the Voice but not the Training,‚Äù his wife explained. ‚ÄúAnd if he‚Äôs not going to get off the note again, he‚Äôll have to have some of his numbers transposed. I told that to the creature that ran off with Mildenhall, but, of course, it was no use talking to her. She couldn‚Äôt play a straight accompaniment, let alone transpose. As I told Joe this morning, you‚Äôre a real musician, so you won‚Äôt mind putting some of his numbers down a semitone or a tone.‚Äù And Inigo did put some of them down a semitone or a tone, but nobody except Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who was quite triumphant, even imagined it made any difference. Joe‚Äôs rough, powerful voice still refused to keep on the note; towards the end of a song it wavered between several different notes; and usually at the very end it wandered into another key altogether. Moreover, it cannot be denied that Joe was a very wooden vocalist. He stiffened his massive body, clenched his fists, and roared until he was purple in the face. It was not so bad when his themes were nautical and it was his duty to point out the various perils of the de‚Äëee‚Äëeep, but when he tried to turn himself into a melodious victim of the tender passion, when he declared that he heard you whisper his name among the roses or admitted that he had been standing ‚Äôneath your window in the moonlight or confessed that he thought of nothing night and day but two bright eyes and two white arms, and stood there bellowing, fifteen stone of taut muscle and stiff bone, with his big chin jutting out, his forehead gemmed with beads of perspiration, and his two fists apparently ready at any moment to deliver a knockout, then it was very hard indeed not to smile at honest Joe. Miss Trant, who chanced to enter the hall when one of his love lyrics was in full blast, had to retire to the back so that he would not catch sight of her face. ‚ÄúWhat on earth makes Mr.¬ÝBrundit sing love songs?‚Äù she asked Susie afterwards. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mind what he sings, of course, but anybody less lovesick I can‚Äôt imagine.‚Äù Susie laughed. ‚ÄúI know. Poor Joe!‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe sounds as if he‚Äôs shouting for steak and onions, doesn‚Äôt he? Mrs.¬ÝJoe‚ÅÝ‚Äîour Stella‚ÅÝ‚Äîmakes him sing them. They don‚Äôt go down badly, either. People must think it hurts him more than it hurts them, so they give him a hand. I adore Joe, though. He‚Äôs a lot nicer than the men who can sing love songs, I can tell you. I‚Äôve known some of them. Ugh!‚Äù When the two girls of the party came to rehearse their individual numbers with him, Inigo had an unpleasant surprise. He found that he enjoyed playing to Elsie more than he did to Susie. Elsie came first and ran through about half a dozen songs, mostly of American origin, songs at once plaintive and impudent, in which somebody had either never had a ‚Äúsweetie‚Äù or had just lost one. Elsie sang these in a little tinny nasal voice that seemed itself an importation from the United States, and after the last two she danced in quite an engaging and graceful fashion, making the most of her shapely self. To Inigo looking over the piano at her as soon as he could dispense with the few repeated bars of music that accompanied the dance-steps, she seemed very attractive, in spite of the fact that he had always thought her too fair and fluffy, too saucer-eyed, too scented, at once too demure and too flaunting, too much the ageing kitten, and had never had five minutes‚Äô amusing talk with her. Until then, indeed, he had seen her as a rather silly and empty woman‚ÅÝ‚Äîand, after all, she was a woman, several years his senior‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had set her down as ‚Äúaffected and cosmeticated, and a bit hard and mean inside.‚Äù But now, when she twirled away, smiled at him, cried ‚ÄúQuicker, please,‚Äù smiled again as they increased the pace together, she seemed to have distinct charm, and he saw an audience warming to her act, thin and conventional though it might be. And when, at the end, pink and rather breathless, she clapped her hands and came over to him, crying ‚ÄúOh, thanks ever so much! That was topping. You do play beautifully, don‚Äôt you?,‚Äù and he replied ‚ÄúThat was fun, wasn‚Äôt it, Miss Longstaff?,‚Äù and she said that she couldn‚Äôt be Miss Longstaff any longer but must be Elsie and he must be Inigo‚ÅÝ‚Äîthen he began to feel they were really friends.
This was a surprise but not unpleasant. It was Susie who surprised him unpleasantly. To begin with, she was so disappointing. Jimmy Nunn, the Brundits, and even Jerningham, had all told him how wonderful Susie was; easily the best little comedienne on the Concert Party stage, they said, and a coming star on any stage; not simply hardworking and clever with a touch or two of originality but‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know. And he knew. He had watched her closely ever since they first met, which was only last Thursday but already seemed months ago, and was only too willing to believe anything they said of her. He could see her on the stage‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe nimble but sturdy figure of her, the piquant dark face, flashing with fun, and the performance itself, a rush of high spirits, a mixture of charm and drollery with just a glint, the tiniest glint of pathos. And then when she came to rehearse with him, it was not like that at all. She sang a few songs in a husky little voice; they were poor things, flimsier than Elsie‚Äôs, even, and she went through them listlessly, halfheartedly. She did a little step-dancing, but that was halfhearted too. Now and again she stopped him; he was too slow, too fast, or he must halt in such a place. That was all. It was woefully disappointing.
“I say,” he began, when she had done and was putting her music together.
“Well, what is it, Professor?”
‚ÄúThose songs of yours‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre not much good, are they?‚Äù He saw her opening her eyes to stare at him. ‚ÄúI mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîpretty feeble‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh?‚Äù
“Oh, do you think so?” There was rising and dangerous inflection in her voice.
“Rather! Thin stuff, tissue paper, absolutely! You must get fed up singing ’em, don’t you? Quite apart from the words, think of the tunes. What are they? Lord, I could invent half a dozen better ones in a morning.”
“Could you really?”
“With ease,” the rash young man continued. “I don’t say mine wouldn’t be tripe, but there’s tripe and tripe, isn’t there?”
“I suppose so,” she said, softly now. “I never touch it myself. But go on, please, go on.”
“Well, I mean to say,” he went on, a little less sure of himself, “if those things are the best that are going, we’ll pension ’em off and concoct some of our own. What do you think?”
‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you what I think,‚Äù she said fiercely. ‚ÄúI think you‚Äôve got a damned cheek. Now then! Sitting there coolly telling me my songs are all rot! And you haven‚Äôt been in the show five minutes. Never seen an audience in your life! D‚Äôyou think I‚Äôm in your‚ÅÝ‚Äîyour‚ÅÝ‚Äîinfant class! Oh yerse,‚Äù she went on, holding up her head and speaking in a throaty voice that was a vindictive imitation of Inigo‚Äôs, ‚Äúther‚Äôs trape and trape, isn‚Äôt ther? Oh, absolutely!‚Äù Then, with a furious sweep, she turned and caught sight of Jimmy Nunn, who was in conference in the body of the hall. ‚ÄúJimmy,‚Äù she called, ‚Äújust a minute, Jimmy. You‚Äôll perhaps be sorry to hear that I shan‚Äôt be able to appear in the show. No, impossible! Mr.¬ÝJollifant, who‚Äôs so kindly condescended to play for us, says my songs aren‚Äôt worth playing.‚Äù
“I didn’t,” Inigo protested.
‚ÄúYes, of course you did,‚Äù she retorted. ‚ÄúAnd what I‚Äôd like to know is‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho do you think you are? The last pianist we had was pretty foul, but at least she didn‚Äôt tell us what we had to sing.‚Äù
“Now then, you kids,” Jimmy called to them. “Remember you’re going to have something tasty for your tea, and I’m not. Pity poor James! Ease up, Susie. And you apologize, Jollifant. I don’t care if you haven’t done anything, say you’re sorry. It’s the only way with ’em. Take it easy, the pair of you.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm awfully sorry, Susie‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Miss Dean, thank you.”
“All right. Miss Dean then,” replied Inigo with dignity. “I repeat: I’m awfully sorry if I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to.”
“Yes, that’s the only way with ’em, isn’t it? Well, it isn’t with me.” Susie picked up her music. “I’m sorry you don’t like these numbers because you’re going to hear them quite a lot. Anyhow, I’m going to sing them. And if you wrote the best soubrette songs in the world, here and now, I wouldn’t sing them, not if you paid me to sing them. And that’s that.” And off she marched, her head in the air.
Jimmy came up a few minutes afterwards, and Inigo told him what had happened. Jimmy whistled for a minute, then puckered up his face and looked drolly at his companion. “There’s one thing they didn’t teach you at Cambridge, my boy,” he said finally, “and it’s something you’ll have to learn at this job. That’s tact. Don’t say these things. Think ’em but don’t put ’em in the book of words. In this profession, the men are bad enough. But the women! Touchy! Dynamite, my boy. One word and up they go! Besides, Susie’s numbers are good enough. I don’t say they couldn’t be better. But you see what she does with ’em on the night. They all eat out of her hand.”
‚ÄúBut that‚Äôs the point,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúI should never have said anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis is between ourselves‚ÅÝ‚Äîif I hadn‚Äôt been so disappointed. I expected something wonderful from her, and I thought she was awfully dull.‚Äù
On hearing this, Jimmy gave an excellent imitation of a distinguished astronomer who has just been told that the world is flat. He groaned; he looked heavenwards; he beat his brow. “What d’you think this is?” he cried, waving a hand at the empty hall. “A command performance? D’you think them chairs with the bit of plush left on are the Royal Family? D’you think that pillar there’s Sir Oswald Stoll, with his pockets full of new contracts?”
‚ÄúLet me take a turn at this,‚Äù cried Inigo, good humouredly enough, though in truth he was still rather nettled. ‚ÄúAnd do I think this piano is the box office of Drury Lane? The, answer is‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt. And what then?‚Äù
Jimmy laughed. “Only this. Susie wasn’t bothering, that’s all. Wait till you see her in front of an audience. I tell you, she can make a hit with the duddest number you ever shut your ears to. Leave it to her, my boy. Susie’s all right.”
“I see.” Inigo played a little phrase, softly, reflectively, then ended with a sudden crash. “You can expect some songs from me now, Jimmy, that is, if we can get some words. The tunes come easily enough, but I can’t write the sort of stuff they want as words for them.”
“If my inside lets me alone for a day or two,” said Jimmy, “I can do a bit that way myself. We’ll get together and fit ’em in. This is how it works. If you’ve got a good melody, then I’ll try to find words for it. If I’ve a likely lyric, you try to find a tune. And don’t forget to try your hand on that opening chorus I’ve got ready.”
“Right you are. I’m going to show Miss Susie that I wasn’t exactly talking through my hat just now. She said she wouldn’t dream of singing anything I ever wrote. We’ll see about that. I’ll write something that’ll make her eat her words, or I’ll bust.” And, so fired by the scorn of Susie, who must be shown, he set to work in earnest, and the two of them spent all the next day, Sunday, with a wreck of a cottage piano, the pride of Jimmy’s lodgings, and some music manuscript paper that Jimmy had unearthed.
On Monday morning, Inigo rehearsed with Jerry Jerningham, who carefully divested himself of his coat and waistcoat and then, for the next hour, worked like the nigger of legend. His voice was no better than it is now, was indeed the same plaintive and rather nasal croon, hardly worth calling a voice at all, yet most artfully adapted for the work it had to do. Jazz, which had begun as an explosion of barbaric high spirits, a splash of crimson and black on a drab globe, had become civilized; it was quieter, more subtle, and flirted with sentiment and cynicism; its first bold colours faded to autumnal tints; its butterfly gaieties were forever fluttering down into melancholy; its insistent rhythms were like the soft plug-plugging of those great machines that now keep whole populations waiting upon them, devouring so much of people‚Äôs time and yet leaving their minds partly free to wander‚ÅÝ‚Äîand to wonder; and in its own crude, jigging, glancing fashion, as it sang with a grin and shrug of home and love to the crowds of the homeless and unloved, it contrived to express all the sense of baffled desire and the sad nostalgia of the age. History, which attends to folk songs as well as the migrations of peoples, had produced this Jazz, and Nature, working obscurely in a long dark street in a Midland city, had produced a Jerry Jerningham, this Antinous in evening dress and dancing slippers, to match the event. Jerry‚Äôs voice was nothing, yet it would have been impossible to find a better for these songs. And his feet, those two astonishing energetic and versatile commentators, said all the rest. As soon as he began pit-patting with those feet, Jerry suddenly became a real person, confessing things, making original remarks about life. His feet pondered, sank into despair, began to hope, took courage, laughed and carolled, became crazed with happiness, were touched with doubt, wondered uneasily, shrugged and turned cynical, all with a seemingly careless grace.
Inigo had found it difficult to like this beautiful and vacant young man, but now he found it easy enough to respect him. Jerningham might have a mind as blank as a new slate, and the most atrociously affected accent in the country; he might be all narrow ambition and conceit; but he was an artist‚ÅÝ‚Äînot merely an artiste, but an artist. And how he worked! It was his ambition to be the most graceful lounger, the best of all the idle fops of revue and musical comedy, and to achieve these butterfly perfections he trained like an athlete and toiled like a slave. Off the stage, Inigo had discovered that Jerningham could be easily ignored; but now at rehearsal he saw another young man, who knew exactly what he wanted, not merely from himself but from everybody else, and had made up his mind not to be balked; he was in his own atmosphere, and at once flashed into life, like a fish put back into water. Inigo played with unusual zest to the very end. Jerningham leaned against the piano, smiled across it, and then carefully wiped his forehead with a lilac silk handkerchief.
‚ÄúBy George!‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut you can dance, though,‚Äù cried Inigo, enthusiastically. ‚ÄúHope my playing was all right? This syncopated stuff‚Äôs rotten to read at sight.‚Äù
“Jally faine,” said Jerningham. “Ai laike your playing. Jest what Ai warnted. You’ve got the Jaizz tech. You’ll make a lat of difference to our baind too.” He mopped himself delicately again. “Gled you laike my darncing. Ai’m pretty good at those steps, but Ai warnt some new ones very bardly.”
Inigo flourished a manuscript. “You listen to this,” he cried. “It’s a song Jimmy and I wrote yesterday. The tune’s one I’ve had in my head for some time, and now Jimmy’s put some words to it.”
“What’s the taitle?”
“ ‘Slippin’ Round the Corner,’ ” Inigo told him. “I’ll play it to you while you’re resting.” And once again the mischievous little tune came dancing out of the keys. Long before Inigo had finished, Jerningham was looking over his shoulder at the manuscript and humming and tapping his feet.
“Oh, but it’s a wonderful little namber!” cried Jerningham, with unexpected enthusiasm. “There’s nathing going to tech it, nathing, Jallifarnt. And it’s mai number, isn’t it? Must be mai namber, Ai insist.”
“Yes, you can sing it,” Inigo replied, with grim satisfaction. He was thinking of Susie.
Jerningham was going through the words now. “Ai must tray this now, Ai ralely must. You know you look like being a gold-maine, Jallifarnt. Now do pramise you’ll let me sing this for at least two or three months before you send it anywhere?”
“Oh, that’s all right. I wasn’t thinking of sending it anywhere.”
“But mai dear boy, of course you must. There’s pats of meney in things like this, pats. Shahly you knew thart!” And Jerningham opened wide his velvety brown eyes to stare at this strange fellow. “But let’s tray it now. Here’s Jaymy and Mitcham. We’re just going to tray this namber of yours, Jaymy.”
Jerningham took the manuscript‚ÅÝ‚ÄîInigo knowing the music by heart‚ÅÝ‚Äîand went through one verse and chorus rather slowly. Then he tried the second verse and took the chorus at quicker pace, his feet making little movements to the lilt of it. ‚ÄúNow we‚Äôll tray it all over again, please, Jallifarnt, and we‚Äôll put the snep into it. Raight you are.‚Äù And when he came to repeat the chorus, he was accompanied by Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs banjo and Jimmy on the drums. The four of them sent everything slipping gloriously round the corner, and Inigo danced on the piano stool, improvised the most astounding variations and flourishes, and laughed in his excitement. ‚ÄúRepeat, repeat,‚Äù cried Jerningham, and immediately stopped singing and began dancing properly, while the other three, their heads wagging away, slipped and slipped and slipped round the corner.
“But where, where, where did you get that duck, that perfect little fat duck of a number?” It was Susie who came rushing on the stage. They had not noticed she was about. They had not noticed anything. “Never mind,” she cried. “Tell me afterwards. Let’s have it again, do let’s have it again. I want to try it with Jerry.”
So off they went again, repeating the chorus, with Susie, very excitedly humming and putting in all manner of strange words, dancing away with Jerningham. After a minute or two, the men stopped.
“Go on, go on, boys,” she cried. “You’re not going to stop, are you? Can’t I have it again?”
No, she couldn’t, they told her. They were all blown.
“Well, now you can tell me,” said Susie. “Whose is it and where did it come from? Tell me all about it.”
“It’s mai new namber, Susie,” Jerningham panted.
‚ÄúAnd there‚Äôs the boy who wrote it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, pointing to Inigo. ‚ÄúAnd as soon as he let me hear it, I said ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs a winner, my boy.‚Äô I can tell ‚Äôem. Went back to my hotel once in Chicago and there was a waiter there‚ÅÝ‚Äîlittle Jew boy‚ÅÝ‚Äîheard him picking out a tune on the piano, very quietly‚ÅÝ‚Äînobody about, you see. I went straight up to him‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But he had to finish his anecdote in the wings, where Jimmy and Jerningham were taking deep breaths. Susie had not stayed to listen to it. She had rushed over to Inigo at the piano.
“Do you mean to say you wrote that?” she demanded.
He smiled at her. ‚ÄúWell, Jimmy wrote the words, but I wrote the tune. It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîone of those little things of mine I believe I mentioned to you the other day. A poor thing but mine own: absolutely.‚Äù
Susie stared at him, breathing hard. “And you’ve let Jerry Jerningham have it?”
“Yes, why not?”
‚ÄúWell, you are a mean pig to give it to him like that, and not even let me hear it first. I didn‚Äôt think you could be so‚ÅÝ‚Äîso‚ÅÝ‚Äîunfriendly, so spiteful.‚Äù
‚ÄúBut you said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI know what I said. But of course I didn‚Äôt mean it. You ought to have known I didn‚Äôt mean it. Besides, I thought if you did write anything, it would be dreadful‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey usually are‚ÅÝ‚Äîand not something really good like that. And just because‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù She paused.
“Because what?” He had stopped smiling now. He was busy trying to make head or tail of these remonstrances that came flashing out without any kind of logical sequence that he could discover, and at the same time he was telling himself how pretty she was. No, it wasn’t just prettiness. Nor could you call it beauty. But there it was, infinitely delightful and disturbing.
Now she suddenly dropped her indignation. ‚ÄúIt doesn‚Äôt matter of course. It‚Äôs nothing. But I thought we were going to be friends, and it‚Äôs obvious we‚Äôre not. That‚Äôs all. I suppose you‚Äôre writing another now for Elsie Longstaff. No, I‚Äôm really cross now. I wasn‚Äôt before, and you ought to have seen I wasn‚Äôt. And I‚Äôm not cross now. Yes, I know. I thought I was but I wasn‚Äôt. I‚Äôm just‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, I‚Äôm disappointed. That‚Äôs all.‚Äù She lowered her eyes as she tried to look brisk and cheerful. (And Inigo, bewildered but not yet entirely unobservant, did not know which it was.) ‚ÄúIt really is a good little number,‚Äù she said, with all the brittle brightness of a conscientious hostess. ‚ÄúAnd I must say, you‚Äôre clever. You‚Äôll make quite a lot of money if you keep on turning out things like that.‚Äù And she strolled away, her head in the air.
This was Inigo’s triumph, but he did not enjoy it. He sat there feeling rather ashamed of himself, though somewhere at the back of his mind was a cool little fellow who whispered that he had no reason to be ashamed of himself, that he had just been humbugged out of his triumph. Then she came back, ran across the stage, her face alight.
“I don’t want you to think I’m bad-tempered, because I’m not, really I’m not,” she cried, putting her elbows on the piano and resting her chin in her hands. In this position she could look at him steadily, and she did look at him steadily. “Now, aren’t you sorry you gave that number to Jerry Jerningham instead of me? I know I haven’t shown you yet what I can do, and I know that Jerry’s very clever in his own way. I believe you were very disappointed in me the other day, weren’t you?” she inquired, rather plaintively.
‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Inigo stammered, feeling it impossible to look away and equally impossible to say what he had thought with his eyes still fixed on hers.
“Are you really a spiteful person? You don’t look like one. I thought at first you were rather nice.”
‚ÄúI am,‚Äù he replied, trying to be the good-humoured, rather whimsical middle-aged gentleman, and not succeeding at all. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm usually considered specially nice. ‚ÄòHere comes that nice Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äô they say.‚Äù He put on the indulgent smile of forty-five, but felt it wobble.
“Are you? I wonder.” She stared at him with a kind of innocent speculation for a moment. “But you mustn’t try to patronize me just because you’re about three years older than I am, you know. We’re just the same age really.”
This was his chance. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. “And now you’re going to tell me that a girl is always years older than a man. I know. You’ve been reading magazine stories and light fiction from Boots’.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind,” she protested, almost too swiftly. “I was going to say I’d seen a lot more of life than you have. Then I thought I wouldn’t. ‘It might hurt his nice little conceit of himself,’ I said to myself. So I didn’t. If you want to be friends with a man, you mustn’t ever say anything to hurt his precious vanity, and as that’s always as big as a row of houses and tender all over, you have to be awfully careful.”
“Oh, do you want to be friends, then?”
‚ÄúPerhaps.‚Äù She stood up now, gave a twirl or two. ‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt made up my mind‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite.‚Äù
“Do make up your mind. I’m all for it, absolutely,” he said, turning into an eager youth again. “What’s the good of being a Good Companion, if you’re not friends.”
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs my new friend,‚Äù she remarked, still twirling. ‚ÄúAhr Jess. Did you know his name‚Äôs Jess? It‚Äôs Jesiah, really. Isn‚Äôt that too sweet? He comes to me and asks all about curtains and footlights and spotlights and props, and he goes about looking so important when he‚Äôs anything to do. He‚Äôs already mended my basket for me. He says ‚ÄòIt‚Äôll do champion nar, Soos.‚Äô He calls me ‚ÄòSoos,‚Äô and tells me all about Shuddersford and the Gurt North Roo‚Äëad. We‚Äôre very thick, I can tell you. I heard him saying to Miss Trant, ‚ÄòHer and ahr Lily‚Äôs as like as two peeas.‚Äô What d‚Äôyou think of that?‚Äù She hummed a bar or two of ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner,‚Äù and tried a few steps. Then she smiled at Inigo.
‚ÄúDo you know what you‚Äôre going to do now, Mr.¬ÝInigo Jollifant?‚Äù she cried softly. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre going to write another song, just as good as that, if not a wee bit better, and that number will be all for me. I can see it coming. And‚ÅÝ‚Äîlisten‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll promise to put all I know into it, and then one day a big manager from the West End will hear me singing it, and he‚Äôll send for you and he‚Äôll send for me, and we‚Äôll both make our fortunes. You‚Äôll have Francis, Day, and Hunter sitting on your doorstep, and I‚Äôll have fifteen agents fighting on the stairs. Now don‚Äôt say you can‚Äôt do it, because I know you can, you‚Äôre so clever. Do you know, I said at once when I saw you, ‚ÄòThat boy with the lock of hair and the ridiculous knapsack doesn‚Äôt look like a pro, but he looks a clever boy.‚Äô That‚Äôs exactly what I said. And now, isn‚Äôt that what you‚Äôre going to do?‚Äù
And, strangely enough, Inigo admitted that it was. He even went so far as to add that already he had a tune in his head that might do, if Jimmy could dig up some words. “And are we friends again now?” he inquired.
“But of course we are,” she replied. “Though we don’t know each other very well, do we? But we’re going to work very hard together.” Then she looked him over rather severely “But, you know, you mustn’t take these little things so seriously. Mind that.”
Before he could reply, she was giving a lightning imitation of a pompous gentleman fingering a large, pointed, and very important moustache. ‚ÄúLittle things, you know, Mistah‚ÅÝ‚Äîar‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJollifant,‚Äù she croaked. ‚ÄúMe‚Äëah difference of o‚Äëpin‚Äëyon, what! The kaind of thing that may happen at any mo‚Äëoh‚Äëment‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat!‚Äù Then she instantly became herself again, blew him a kiss, and tripped away.
Inigo stared after her and drew a very deep breath. Having had such innocents as Felton and Daisy Callander of Washbury Manor to deal with, he had come to see himself inevitably taking the lead, leaping from position to position and beckoning to the duller-witted who lumbered after him; but he could not help feeling that he had now more than met his match. Susie left him gasping. Being friends with her was going to be very exciting. It appeared that his imagination had probably not deceived him when, hearing her voice in the tearoom, it had seen a curtain go shooting up. That curtain was still going up, higher and higher.