His mother was delighted. She stood happily at the door of the Church, beside Mr Mathias, ostensibly to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, but in reality to garner compliments on the brilliance of her son. The Neuadd Goch party walked home bright with reflected glory. Even Ripon recovered from having been given three copies of Welsh in a Week (Monica’s, and one from the squire, and one—unkindest cut—from Ceinwen) and said that he had loved every minute of the service, and felt much nearer to Washington Irving than ever before, but wasn’t the singing a little under par for a Welsh congregation?

“It’s a lie that all the Welsh can sing,” said Mr Hopkin-Griffiths; “the truth is that some can sing but they can all yell. And they were quiet this morning because they were listening to our Canadian visitor; I never was told that you could sing like that, my dear. We’ll want to hear more from you this afternoon.”

“I’m a pupil of Giles’, which should explain it,” said Monica, and once again Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths launched into an account of the fine things that had been said, and how well he had played, and how, perhaps, after all, there might be some sense in his treating music as a profession.

“Mind you, Griff and I couldn’t be more sympathetic about Gilly’s music,” she said to Monica and Ripon, who were walking with her. “We’ve always said it was a wonderful gift, ever since he became so serious about it at school. There was a master there in his time who was wonderfully gifted—quite professional, really. And Gilly has made friends among musicians—one of them is this Sir Benedict Domdaniel, and I’ve heard he’s charming, though of course a Jew—but Jews are wonderfully gifted, aren’t they, and we must always remember it and particularly at Christmas. And some of his things have been broadcast, which is awfully good, too. And of course he’s so deep in this magazine—Lantern, isn’t it—and we thought that might lead to a job with a publisher, or something like that. And even a pupil! You know dear, you could have knocked me down with a feather, as the people say around here, when you came in yesterday, and knew Gilly, and he was your teacher. When Lady Phoebe gave us your name, it meant nothing to us—just that you were a Canadian studying in London, and of course I thought from the London School of Economics, because that’s where the Canadians all seem to go, and the dear knows why, because it seems to make them so gloomy and farsighted about nasty things. Gilly was thunderstruck. Thought I’d asked for you on purpose. He so resents any interference from me in his London life you know. But it was sheer chance; though Lady Phoebe always seems to think we’re musical, though I don’t know why. But music as a profession—well, nobody we know has ever done it, and one hears about the risks, and everything. What do you think, dear? Of course it’s different for you; you’re wonderfully gifted—oh, don’t say you aren’t, because I can tell just by looking at you. And also I expect you’ve your way to make. But Gilly could have such a different life, if he chose, and one does so want one’s son to make the right choice. Tell me what you really think.”

Monica could not conceive of anyone who had it in him to be a composer being anything else, nor was she interested in promoting a marriage between Revelstoke and Ceinwen. Her reply was a model of modesty and tact; she was not a proper judge, she said, but she knew that Sir Benedict had a very high opinion of Giles’ work, and especially his songs. She could have spared her breath, for Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths was not really listening; she had her eyes on Revelstoke and Ceinwen, who were ahead of her, and who seemed to have nothing to say to one another.

After luncheon the squire and Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths retired to their rooms, he for a frank sleep, and she for what was more delicately called “my usual rest”; Ripon was doing his best to find the way into Ceinwen’s climate of feeling, and Monica was too full of happiness to want to disturb them, for her adventure of Christmas Eve had made her generous and charitable; she had some hopes of a talk with Revelstoke, but he too vanished, so she went for a walk by herself, up the hill behind the house, and over a moor which was wild and romantic enough to satisfy the most eager heart. She wandered there for almost two hours, thinking over and over again that she was now a woman, and that she had a lover, and that life was sweeter than she had ever known it to be. Not a thought had she for the Galls in Salterton, who would at this time be sitting amid the ruins of Mrs Gall’s calorifically murderous Christmas dinner, fighting, in the name of Christian charity, a losing fight against their mounting ennui and repletion. She returned to Neuadd Goch just in time for tea, and found herself the only member of the party who was in a really good temper.

After tea the squire asked her to sing. “Music at Christmas, always,” said he; “I will remember as a boy, in this room, my pater always sang at Christmas—just one song, Gounod’s Nazareth, Wonder if anybody sings it now? And my Aunt Isobel sang The Mistletoe Bough. Can’t have Christmas without music.”

Somewhat to Monica’s surprise Revelstoke moved to the piano to play for her, which was not his custom at lessons. She sang The Cherry Tree Carol, which she had learned from Molloy, and he improvised an accompaniment of considerable beauty, using the simple tune as a point of departure for harmonies remote from any that might have been expected by a conventional ear, but evocative of an atmosphere wonderfully congruous with the simple legend of the song. To Monica it was a delight, and she sang well, but the listeners received it with apathy. She sang Blow, Blow Thou Winter Wind, and this time Revelstoke confined himself to a piano part which respected the intentions of Dr Thomas Augustine Arne. But Monica wanted to return to the adventure of improvisation, so she sang Jésu Christ en Pauvre, trying to interest the Hopkin-Griffiths by saying that it was a folksong of her native land.

“Really, dear?” said her hostess, “and I suppose it reminds you of home and familiar things. How sweet.”

“Yes, it does,” said Monica. It was the first in a series of lies which she was to tell during the next few days, all calculated to throw her Canadian past into a pleasing and romantic light. For she had never heard Jésu Christ en Pauvre until she learned it from Molloy, and certainly the singing of wistful French-Canadian folksongs had never been a Christmas pursuit of the Gall family, or anyone they knew. But pretence is wonderfully stimulating to the artistic mind, which is why some people lie for fun, rather than from necessity. The tender feeling and insight with which Revelstoke had illumined The Cherry Tree Carol he brought in greater measure to the naive, spare little legend of Christ disguised as a poor man, and when the song was done he and Monica were well content with it.

“Good, good,” said the squire, in a voice which made it plain that he had felt and understood nothing. “Now, Ceinwen, tune your pipes. Let’s have a Welsh song. Always like a Welsh song at Christmas.”

“Where are those Welsh songs I sent you last year, Uncle Griff,” said Ceinwen; “I’ll sing you one of those.”

A brief search discovered them in the music bench. “I wanted you to have them because I helped edit these two collections,” said she. “My name is in the introduction—”Our thanks are also due to”—me, along with a few others. So you see you’re not the only one to get your name on a bit of music, Gilly.”

This was plainly meant to be a pleasantry, but Giles was not willing to take it so. “More weeping little modal tunes; I can’t bear the way the Welsh folksong people arrange their stuff,” said he.

“We heard what you like done with Welsh tunes this morning,” said Ceinwen, without good humour.