“I can,” said Solly, speaking for the first time. “What about Torso Tompkins?”

“Solly!” cried Nellie, in a tone of despair.

The Professor’s face was bleak. “In Shakespeare,” said he, “a certain balance is an absolute necessity. There is a quality of modernity about Miss Tompkins which it is impossible to disguise.”

“She’s widely admitted to have the finest figure in Salterton,” said Solly, stubbornly, “and she has a large personal following. If you want to sell tickets, put The Torso in a cheesecloth shift and chase her across the stage to slow music.”

“Which was she?” asked Valentine.

“One of those girls who said they’d do anything,” replied Nellie. “A bold-looking girl with black hair.”

“She is called The Torso for the best of reasons,” said Solly. “She has a bosom like a girl on the dust-jacket of a historical novel, as well as other agreeable features. And when it comes to being ox-eyed, The Torso begins where Miss Wildfang leaves off.”

“I’ll have a look at her,” said Valentine. “Other goddesses?”

“I want to suggest dear little Freddy Webster for one,” said Nellie. “She isn’t here tonight, but as the play is to be done at her father’s home I think it would be a very nice thing to include her.”

“Is she that dark, serious-looking child I met at St Agnes’?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. I’ll speak to her sister. Shall we go in now?”

Their reappearance in the clubroom brought an immediate silence. The hopeful readers stood about in groups, drinking the copper-coloured tea and eating the economical little cakes supplied by Miss Wildfang and her assistants. Griselda had chosen to be one of these, and was moving about,with a large teapot. This made it difficult for anyone to talk to her for very long, and Roger Tasset was greatly chagrined. He was with a knot of three girls, one of whom was Miss Bonnie-Susan Tompkins, known as The Torso. She had, indeed, a splendid figure, but the beholder was rarely permitted to see its beauties at rest. If she was not swinging one foot she was tossing back her hair; she arched her neck and heaved up her rich bosom most fetchingly, but too often; from time to time she waved her hands and snapped her fingers as though to some unheard, inner dance-tune; when she laughed, which was often, her posteriors gave a just-perceptible upward leap, in sympathy. Her face was as animated as the rest of her; she was a lip-biter, an eye-roller, a sucker-in and a blower-out of breath. Her energy was delightful for five minutes, and exhausting after ten. As the committee came through the door, she laughed at a remark which Roger had made. It was a carrying laugh, and through her jersey dress her gluteals could be seen to contract suddenly, and slowly relax again. When the committee passed her on their way back to the table her eyes swivelled nimbly in their sockets. Ox-eyed doesn’t begin to describe it, thought Valentine.

“We have reached several decisions,” said Nellie to the meeting, “and I shall ask Miss Rich to announce them.”.

Valentine read a cast list. No hopes were dashed, for few of those present were so vain as to think that they were certain to get parts. They were, as a group, modestly willing to act if they were thought good enough, and content to be left out if they were not. The passionate egotism of Professor Vambrace by no means represented the temper of the club.

If anyone had been watching Hector when his name was read as the choice for Gonzalo they would have noticed that he flushed a little, smiled a little, and swallowed. But no one was looking.

“A few parts have not been cast,” said Valentine, “but I want to allot them as soon as possible. May I see Miss Webster and Miss Tompkins for a moment, please?”

Roger was indignant. Wasn’t the Webster piece to be cast, after all? If so, why was he wasting his time? If the Tompkins girl was to take her place, he could reconcile himself to it, he supposed, but that was not what he wanted. He had quite forgotten about Pearl Vambrace.

Griselda and The Torso sought out Valentine in a corner, as the hubbub of conversation rose again.

“Hi, Griselda,” said Miss Tompkins. “Long time no see.”

“Hello, Bonnie-Susan,” replied Griselda; “what have you been doing?”

“Better ask what I haven’t been doing,” replied The Torso, eyes rolling, hair tossing, bosom advancing and retreating. It was her way to pretend that she lived a life of violent erotic adventure, but this was true only in a very limited sense.

“I am told that you sing, Miss Webster,” said Valentine. “Now I want you to tell me quite frankly: how well do you sing?”

“I’ve a fairly reliable soprano voice,” said Griselda, “and I’ve had good lessons. Not for noise, you know, but for quality.”

“Do you sing, Miss Tompkins?”

“I was a wow in the Campus Frolic a couple of years ago,” modestly replied The Torso, “but I don’t know how I’d be on any hey-nonny stuff. But I’m a worker.” Everything about her leapt, throbbed and tossed, in token of her sincerity and eagerness.

“Suppose we say, then, that you shall play Juno,” said Valentine. “You have a fine appearance for the part, and if your voice is suitable we’ll consider it settled.”

The Torso was transported. She rushed back to her friends, Hissing, “I’ve got a part! Listen kids, I’ve got a part!”

“Does your sister sing?” said Valentine, turning to Griselda.

“Well—yes, she does. But I don’t know what she would say about acting. She’s an odd child.”

“Tell her I would be greatly obliged if she would consider it, will you?” said Valentine. “We are short of singers, and the music is going to be very important.”

When Griselda had left her, Valentine felt Nellie’s hand on her arm. “Val,” said she, in a tone of gentle reproach, “you haven’t really cast Bonnie-Susan Tompkins for Juno, have you?”

“Yes, why not? The Torso is just what the part wants.”

“Oh, don’t call her by that awful name. Val, darling! I don’t want to interfere, but is she suitable? She’s an awful one for the boys.”

“What could be better? So was Juno, in her overbearing way.”

“But in a classic, is it right?”

“Nellie darling, a lot of classics have remained classic because they have girls in them who are awful ones for the boys.”

Once in the street most of the members of the Little Theatre set off toward their homes, the lucky ones with a light step, and those who had not secured parts less blithely. And yet they were not unusually depressed; they were, most of them, people to whom defeat was an accustomed feeling. A small group remained while Nellie hunted up the janitor whose job it was to lock the door behind them.

“May I give anyone a lift?” cried Griselda, from her car.

“Me. I always want a lift,” said Solly, and climbed in beside her.

“Mr Mackilwraith, may we drop you anywhere?”

“Thanks,” said Hector, “I’ll walk. I would like fresh air. It was very stuffy in the clubroom tonight.” As he spoke he leaned through the window.

“I’m awfully glad you’re going to be Gonzalo,” said Griselda, and smiled.

“It’s good of you to say so,” replied Hector, and he returned the smile somewhat shyly. Then he went down the street in the determined manner of a man who is walking for air.

“Nice of you to say a kind word to Mackilwraith,” said Solly as they drove away. “I’ll bet he has a grim life, teaching wretched kids all day. That’s what I face, if I can’t find anything better.”

“I was glad to see him chosen when Nellie and that odious Professor Vambrace didn’t want him. I thought it was horrid of them to make such a fuss when he wanted a part, just because he wasn’t one of their gang.”

“Valentine Rich dealt them a few shrewd buffets in the hall when we were choosing. I like her more and more.”