“But it must be done! It’s unthinkable that it shouldn’t. Why can’t you do it? Would it take too long? How long does it take to write an opera?”

“Well, Rossini used to knock one off in three weeks, when he was in form. It can also take any number of years. The one sure thing is that you have to live and eat while you’re doing it. If I’m to do this, I must give up all teaching—not that it brings in much—I’d have to give up everything else—bits of film work, editing, the lot. I’m a fairly rapid worker, but an opera is a back-breaker—worse than a symphony in lots of ways. And the costs can be staggering; copying the parts can eat up a packet. The Association is long on prestige, short on cash. I can’t expect help from them.”

“Would your mother help?”

“I’ve asked her, and she has sent me fifty pounds and a lecture, saying that there will be no more, and couldn’t I find a professorship in a conservatoire, or something. The worst of it is, Raikes are getting rough about the Lantern bill and I had to give them the fifty to keep them quiet.”

“Giles, with this on hand, you’ll have to give up Lantern.”

“That is what I positively refuse to do. Nothing would please Aspinwall better. He wants to kill Lantern, and I am not going to oblige him.”

“Giles, listen to me. Do you really think Lantern is so good? Why must you sacrifice to it? Because it is a sacrifice. People I know say it’s—only one of a lot of small magazines, and not the best, except for your things; everyone agrees they’re wonderful. Why can’t you give it up?”

“Because it is a personal mouthpiece which I value. I know that a lot of the stuff in it is tripe; do you suppose I really thrill to the off-key twanglings of Bridget Tooley’s lyre? Or even to Tuke’s tosh? You can’t tell me anything about Lantern that I don’t know. But I have said my say in it for four long years and I want to go on. I might have dropped it if Aspinwall had not so clearly revealed that he wants me to do so, but I shall keep it on to spite him, even if the opera goes up the flue in the process. No, if I write The Golden Asse, it must be done with Lantern still in existence.”

“The Golden Asse? Is that what it’s called? You have a story?”

“I have one of the oldest and best stories in the world; it is The Golden Asse, by Lucius Apuleius. I have been haunted by it since boyhood, and any operatic jottings I have done, have been done with it in mind.”

They talked long and eagerly, for Giles was off his guard as Monica had never known him to be. He was enthusiastic; he forgot to play the genius; he was—she was ashamed of herself for admitting the phrase, even mentally—almost human. But talk as they might, the ground never changed. He wanted to write his opera: he must somehow get money to live while doing so, and to pay the heavy costs involved: he would not give up Lantern because he was convinced that somewhere in London a malignant demon named Stanhope Aspinwall was consumed with the desire that he should do so.

“But it’s lunatic,” cried Monica, in exasperation; “I don’t suppose Aspinwall really gives a damn.”

“I know what I’m talking about,” said Revelstoke, and as he seemed about to close himself up in his unapproachable character again, she let that matter drop.

Of course this conversation led at last to the pokey bedroom, where Monica, for the first time in her life, really enjoyed what passed—enjoyed it not because it gave pleasure to Giles, or because it was a sign that she held some place in his life, or because it was a proof of her freedom, but because it gave pleasure to herself, and because it was herself, and not Persis, to whom he had confided his great news. It was plain enough that Giles needed her.

He should need her more. Monica conceived a great plan. She would find the money which should make possible the writing of The Golden Asse.

Her first proposal was that she should go to Sir Benedict, and ask him to lend Giles enough money to keep him going for a year. Giles vetoed this plan at once; his attitude toward Domdaniel was an unpredictable mingling of admiration for his great gifts as a conductor, and contempt for his success. “I’m not going to give it to him to say that he made it possible for me to write anything,” said he; “if I’m to have a patron it won’t be Brummagem Benny.” And from this position he would not budge. It was pride, and Monica admired him for it, though she could not have analysed it.

Nevertheless, if she could not go to Domdaniel, Monica’s list of possible patrons was at an end. She knew no moneyed people. She confided her trouble to Bun Eccles, as they sat in The Willing Horse.

“Why don’t you finance it yourself?” he asked.

“Me?” said Monica, incredulous.

“Well, Monny, you know your own affairs best, but you look to me like a pretty flush type.”

“Oh, Bun, I’m a church mouse. I’ve always been poor. I mean, Dad had to leave school at sixteen, and we’ve always just managed, you know. All I’ve got now is this scholarship thing.”

“It seems to amount to a good deal. You’ve got some pretty expensive clothes, Monny, and all kinds of costly junk in that flat at Ma Merry’s. Are you sure you’re really poor, or are you just one of those people who assume that they’re poor? Have you ever gone without a meal? Ever had less than two pair of shoes? I have, often, but I don’t consider myself poor. I mean, I’m not telling you what you should do. I’m just asking. But the menagerie thinks you’re rolling.”

It took Monica a full two days to comprehend this, but in the end she was forced to admit to herself that she was not really poor—was, indeed, very well situated. She had all her bills paid; she could buy things on tick; she got five hundred a year, now, as pin-money. The idea was breath-taking; she did not want to be well-off—that was something one said of people against whom one felt an honest working man’s grudge. People who had more than enough money (with a few splendid exceptions like Domdaniel) were for that very reason morally suspect. But at last she accepted the reality of her situation.

Once again she sought Eccles’ advice, and then began such a complication of chicanery as Monica had never dreamed possible. Eccles had a genius for the finance of desperation, and assuming that she wanted as much money as possible, he gave himself a free hand. Within a week he had sold her expensive radiogramophone and her collection of records. (“They are going to Mr Revelstoke’s for a time,” she explained to Mrs Merry, and the landlady was impressed.) He sold some of her personal luggage, including the fitted case which she had been given by the Thirteeners; it was gone before she realized what was happening. He persuaded her to dispose of quite a large part of her wardrobe. He even got ninepence for War and Peace, which had been unopened for fifteen months. All this was done in an ecstasy of haggling and what he called “flogging”.

“This clothes caper is absolutely endless, Monny,” he explained. “We can go on and on. You buy a few smart things every month, charge ‘em, wear ‘em once and turn ‘em over to me. I flog ‘em. Good for eight or ten quid. These lawyers aren’t going to snoop through your cupboard. Go right ahead till they squawk.”

Well, thought Monica, Sir Benedict said they wanted me to spend more money.

She had a few pounds in hand, left from the money she had received for her visit to Paris. Eccles pounced on it.

“You can save a lot on food,” said he, “and you’d better let me have a look at your gas-meter. Those things eat shillings. There’s a little jigger inside that controls how much you get for a bob; I’ll just bring over a tool I have, and put yours right. I don’t doubt Ma Merry’s been swindling you; the only fair thing is to make an adjustment right now. Pity you don’t have your own electric light meter; I’ve a sweet little trick with a magnet that does wonders with one of those. Still, can’t be helped. Oh, you’d be amazed what money you can raise when you know how!”