The basement dining room of the Club was terrifying. It was not very large, but it was filled with alarmingly worldly girls who seemed to be perfectly at home. In the presence of these girls, with their loud, assured English voices—fully understandable and yet, for that very reason, so foreign and unaccustomed in tone and tune—Monica was, for the first time since she left home, afraid. But the efficient secretary came to her aid.

“Miss Stamper,” she said to a girl who was sitting alone at a table for two, “this is Miss Gall from Canada. I’m sure you’ll find a lot in common.”

Monica’s first impression of Miss Stamper was that she was dirty. Her hair was dull. Her face seemed to have grime under the surface of the skin. Her stubby fingers were dark. But her round face was cheerful.

“I wonder why she thinks we’ll find anything in common,” said she. “Are you new here, too?”

By the time they had eaten the watery soup and moved on to the fatty mutton, they were on excellent terms. Peggy Stamper was from Norwich, and she had come to London to learn sculpture. She had been doing a lot of clay modelling, which explained and almost excused the grime. She was not yet nineteen, which gave Monica a certain advantage in age, but Peggy was English, and was thus better equipped to meet the strongly national atmosphere of the Club. It was, she said, intended for girls who were engaged in the arts, or studying them, in London, but what it really worked out to be was a cheap residential place for girls whose artistic inclinations had lapsed, or had always been secondary to some other sort of job. She was there because an aunt, who was partly paying for her training, thought it a safe place for her to be, but she meant to get out as soon as possible.

As they ate a pudding unknown to Monica, which seemed to be called Spotted Dog, she told Peggy about herself. But she noticed, with surprise, as though outside herself, that there were things she did not tell: Peggy heard a good deal about Monica, but she heard nothing of the Glue Works—only of an office job; nothing was said of Pastor Beamis and the Thirteeners—only of some broadcasting experience; the Bridgetower Trust emerged as the sponsor of a far-reaching contest in search of gifted young women, with Sir Benedict Domdaniel as its dominating figure. Not a word did she say with intent to deceive, but in that room, within earshot of those very English voices, facts presented themselves, somehow, in a rather different guise.

Indeed, as Monica went to bed, she was astonished to recall how the facts which she had given to Peggy, without being in the least distorted had been, by some instinct of caution deep within her, edited. Was it Peggy’s fault? No, she had been very friendly, though in a way which was new to Monica—a way which suggested that she was glad to hear anything which she was told, but was not really seeking information and was not, perhaps, deeply interested. Was it something about England, which made real truth and real revelation impossible? Had that dreadful week on the Atlantic really drawn such a broad line between herself and her past? She was uneasy and puzzled until she went to sleep.

Mr Miles Peter Andrews was the most elegant young gentleman that Monica had ever encountered in the flesh, yet he was not really what she would have called a snappy dresser—not as Alex and Kevin were, certainly. Cheerful Frederick Boykin had brought her from Marylebone Road by taxi to Fetter Lane, off which, in Plough Court, were the offices of Jodrell and Stanhope. She now sat in the private room of the junior partner, who looked at her in a weary, lawyer-like fashion, which made Monica feel that he could see right through her. As a matter of fact, Mr Andrews knew next to nothing about her, and was trying to get his bearings. This was the girl from Canada, referred to his firm by—who was it—a Canadian firm called Snelgrove, Martin and Fitzalan, of some place called Salterton. It would have astonished the members of the Bridgetower Trust if they could have known how much in the dark Mr Andrews was about everything connected with their protégée. Mr Snelgrove, who had been entrusted with all the arrangements, had spoken importantly about “our opposite number in London—fine old firm”, as though Jodrell and Stanhope were in almost daily contact with his own office. It may even have been that Mr Snelgrove believed this to be—in a large, general way—the truth. But the fact was that on only one former occasion had Jodrell and Stanhope ever done any business in London for Snelgrove, Martin and Fitzalan of Salterton, and that had been many years ago, when Miles Peter Andrews was at Maryborough. He had been given Monica to look after because, as the junior, he got all the odds and ends, and perhaps also because his wife was musical in a well-bred, desultory way. Mr Andrews caressed his handsome moustache and blinked sorrowfully across his table at Monica.

“Your first visit to London, Miss—ah—Miss Gall?”

“Yes, sir. I came down from Liverpool yesterday afternoon.”

All things considered, it was unfortunate that Monica called him “sir”, though she did so from the best of motives; she thought she should be polite, and Mr Andrews was in roughly the same relationship to her as her former boss at the Glue Works—a man of power on the other side of a desk. But the word spoke volumes—volumes perhaps of untruth, but nevertheless, volumes—to Mr Andrews’ English ear. He allowed his fine eyes to fall to the file which Mr Boykin had laid on his desk. There was not much in it, but a letter from somebody called Matthew Snelgrove made it clear that Miss Monica Gall was the beneficiary of a trust which was empowered to pay for her musical education. Mr Snelgrove, for all his assumption of familiarity with Jodrell and Stanhope, had not thought it necessary to tell them that the yearly income from about a million Canadian dollars might be spent on this project. So Mr Andrews drew his own conclusions from the fact that he had been called “sir”, and also from Monica’s style of dress, which he knew to be neither smart nor expensive. When he spoke again his tone was distant, though kindly.

“Well, Miss Gall,” said he, “we must make you as comfortable as possible, mustn’t we. Our Chief Clerk, Mr Boykin, has arranged digs for you at a very good address—a Mrs Merry in Courtfield Gardens. She knows that you are a music student, and I believe she has made some special arrangement about noise. Now, as to money: we are empowered to pay all your fees for instruction, and any large bills; they can be rendered here, without reference to you. But you’ll need money for ordinary expenses. What do you think you’ll need? By the month, let’s say?”

“I—oh, I wouldn’t have any idea,” said Monica. “I don’t know anything about what it costs to live here. I’m not very good at English money yet. What would you think?”

“I don’t suppose it will be very long before you know other students, and music students aren’t very flush of money, as a usual thing. You wouldn’t want to be above or below the average. Would five pounds a week do it? Say twenty-five pounds a month? That’s three hundred a year, you know; very handsome, really, and all your big bills paid.”

Monica, who knew nothing about it, agreed that this was so, and Mr Andrews thought so, too, for a girl of the sort who called him “sir”.

“Now as to teaching,” he continued, “I see that is all to be in the hands of Sir Benedict Domdaniel. He will tell you what to do, and we shall pay the bills. I see here that Boykin is writing to Sir Benedict today, to say that you have come, and you will undoubtedly be hearing from him very shortly. So there really isn’t anything more to discuss, is there? Except, of course, that if you need any help, or anything like that, get in touch with us. I’m away rather a lot, so you’d better ask for Boykin.”