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teacher, my mother said to Martha and me; “I can’t see why Dolly couldn’t give her a place in the chorus. It’s rather thin, I’ve always thought.”
    “Thin!” screamed Martha. “What are you talking about?”
    “The girls should be closer in that number when they put their hands on each other’s shoulders and do the high kicks. Some of them have a little difficulty in reaching and it spoils the effect.”
    “Nonsense,” said Martha. “It’s one of the best of the dances.”
    “It could be better. Don’t you think so, Noelle?”
    I hadn’t noticed the girls were having difficulty in stretching, but I had to agree with my mother.
    “Yes,” I said. “They could do with one more girl.”
    “I’ll speak to Dolly,” said my mother.
    “He’ll go mad,” retorted Martha.
    When she spoke to Dolly, I was present. She said: “I don’t want Martha there. She’ll side with him. But you be there, Noelle. He’s got a soft spot for you and a respect for youth. He won’t fly off the handle so profanely if you’re there.”
    So I was present.
    “Dolly,” she said. “I think the chorus line is a little too thin.”
    “Thin?” cried Dolly.
    “I fancy it is.”
    “As long as it’s only one of your fancies.”
    “There’s this girl,” she went on. “She’s good. It would be a wonderful start for her and it was my carriage. I thought, if we could squeeze her into the chorus it would be a good turn for me and just what she needs.”
    “I’m not in this business to squeeze people into the chorus just because they run under your horse’s feet.”
    “This is a poor girl, Dolly. Do listen.”
    “Not if you’re going to talk about squeezing one of your protegees into my chorus.”
    “Your chorus! Who made the show what it is? / did.”
    “With a little help from me and some others. Actors and actresses always have inflated ideas of their importance.”
    “Dolly, you’re not such a fool as you like me to think. We could do with another girl in the chorus. You know we could.”
    “No,” said Dolly firmly.
    “Dolly, I’m asking you.”
    “I’m fully aware of that. You get these crackpot ideas about helping people who come along to you with a mournful tale. It’s just like you. It’s not the first time. Give this girl a job and you’ll have thousands tracking to your door. You’ll have them under your carriage wheels by the thousand. We’ll have a stage full of chorus girls. There won’t be any room for the principals.”
    “Dolly, I am only asking for one.”
    “Look here. I’ve just about had enough of your charities. Have them, if you must, but keep them out of my business.”
    “I hate you, Dolly, sometimes. You’re so smug. Can’t you see you’re upsetting me? You’re going to spoil my performance tonight.”
    Dolly struck one of his theatrical poses, pressing his hand to his forehead, his face set in lines of despair.
    “What I suffer, Almighty God, who has seen fit to punish me. What have I done to suffer this woman? How can I endure this torment? She is determined to ruin me. She plans my destruction. She wants to ruin the play to which I have given all I possess. She wants to fill my stage with hundreds of simpering idiotic chorus girls.”
    “Shut up!” said my mother. “Who said anything about hundreds? I keep telling you, it is only one. And if you are ruined, Mr. Dollington, it will be by your own hand. Now you are making me ill … too ill to go on tonight. You’ll have to use Janet Dare. See how the audience likes that. She won’t mind playing with a chorus that’s miserably thin because Mr. Dollington, who fancies himself as Garrick and Kean all rolled in one, is afraid of spending a few more pence on a show others are working themselves into the grave to keep going. Come on, Noelle, I need you to put one of those eau de cologne presses on my forehead. I can feel a splitting headache coming on.”
    She had taken my hand and started towards the door.
    Dolly