"Now, ladies and gentlemen," he explained, "we are going to try the first new number in the Second Act—’Honolulu Lulu.’ Places, please, and try to put some ginger in it this time! You come on laughing and chatting. Now—_commence_!" He clapped his hands again. "For pity’s sake, everybody, _desist_! Gentlemen, gentlemen, remember that you are happy South Sea Islanders, without a care in the world—not welshers coming back from a dirty day at Kempton! Again, please! And ladies, don’t come bolting on in that panic-stricken way. You aren’t taking shelter from an air raid; you are young village belles, come to participate in the Annual Festival of the Sun! You are joyful! You are glad! You are going to sing about it! For the Lord’s sake, _smile_! Phil, old man, the symphony once more, if you please! All come in at the end of six bars. La-la! La-la! La-la! _Now_, all together! No! no! no! _no_!" Mr. Lancaster clapped his hands and beat his breast alternately. "Ladies, ladies, _ladies_! Let me tell you, for the last time, that it is a human impossibility to sing with the mouth shut! It can’t be done! For generations and centuries people have been trying to sing out of their noses, and their ears, and the back of their necks; but no one has ever succeeded yet. Open your little mouths! Open them wide! And _keep_ them open, for the love of Mike!" And so on, until a standard of approximate harmony was attained. *IV* Next day Marjorie walked on at her first rehearsal, and practised the new numbers with the rest. Mr. Lancaster’s attitude towards her was the same as Mr. Lee’s. That is to say, he addressed her much as an old gentleman of seventy might address a little girl of six. "Now, dear, I know you are feeling nervous, and aren’t going to do yourself justice, just at first—" "I am not a bit nervous, thank you," said Marjorie. "Oh, yes, you are," said Mr. Lancaster. "But remember that I understand about that, and am making allowances all the time. So don’t be frightened; but keep your head up, and sing out, that’s a good girl!" "He’s a hard nut," remarked her next-door neighbour into her ear—"but he never swears at you. At least, if he does, he always apologises afterwards. He’s quite a gentleman." In a few days Marjorie was admitted an accepted member of the choral sisterhood. She found her colleagues, for the most part, young, friendly, talkative, excitable, and as improvident as grasshoppers. Most of them possessed a "boy" of some kind—usually a callow subaltern of the one-star brand, with a vocabulary largely composed of the expressions "priceless" and "pathetic." Some of them were married. A few had husbands actually out in France, or farther afield. One or two had babies, and talked about them a good deal.