Monica was indeed amazed, and the uneasiness she felt was shouted down by her pleasure in being able to put a substantial sum of money—nearly two hundred pounds—in Giles Revelstoke’s hand. He was delighted.

“You’re keeping me!” he shouted.

“No, no; it’s a loan, or an investment, or something like that. You mustn’t mind.”

“But I don’t mind. I love it. I’ve never been kept by a woman before.”

The situation seemed to gratify something perverse to him. He knew how Monica came by the money, and he delighted in calling it “her immoral earnings”. But she very soon discovered that it had been a mistake to give him the money, for he had no idea of how to keep it, or use it sparingly. He did not want things for himself, particularly, but he gave Raikes Bros, another fifty pounds on the Lantern account, and he gave a party for the menagerie, to whom he confided, as the best joke in the world, that he was now Monica’s kept man. Monica was so torn between shame and exultation that, for the first time in her life, her digestion troubled her. All the better, said Bun Eccles; she’d want less to eat.

The menagerie thought it all wonderful, and Tuke and Tooley courted Monica embarrassingly, seeing in her the saviour of Lantern. It was true that Miss Tooley, who kept Tuke (but in a sublimated, disciple-like way), made a few veiled references to the iniquity of diverting trust funds: and it was also true that Tuke, who was deeply hurt because he was not to make the libretto of The Golden Asse (which Giles was adapting himself) was a little bitter about artists who sold themselves for money. Persis was jealous, because she could not afford to keep Giles; it would have been such a sell for her straight-laced parents if they had discovered that she kept a man. But she shut up when Eccles suggested to her that she might try her luck on Piccadilly, and put her earnings into the general fund. Though there were under-currents, it was accepted among them that Monica was a heroine.

Eccles had no money, but he gave his talent to the acquirement and husbanding of anything that Monica could lay her hands on. There was only one source of income which he ruled out.

Odingsels approached Monica one evening, and sitting beside her, so that his unpleasant head was very close to hers, said: “If you really want money, I can always pay you for work—though I can’t afford to contribute anything for nothing. But I do figure studies—the nude, you know—oh, nothing unpleasant and very well thought of by judges; the right models are always a problem, and it so happens that you have an excellent figure, of just the sort I require. You know me, Monica, and I am sure you have no silly ideas about such things. I could run to ten guineas a sitting, and I could make use of you quite often.”

Monica was willing; after all, if Persis could take off her clothes for Odingsels, so could she. But Eccles was firm.

“No you don’t,” said he.

“But he says it’s not dirty pictures. And it’s ten guineas a time. I don’t mind. Why, Bun, you know you employ models yourself. What’s the fuss?”

“Monny, some day that fellow is going to be in very bad trouble. And when he is, you don’t even want to know about him, see? Now don’t argue. You’re not going to do it.”

And although Monica was rebellious, she obeyed.

The fact was that the small engagements and sources of income which Giles gave up to work on his opera—some examination of manuscripts for a music publisher, some arranging of music for the BBC, scores for documentary films, and some occasional critical writing outside Lantern—might have brought him twenty pounds or so a month. Monica was providing him with about twice that sum, but it all vanished without anybody seeming to be better off. The same hand-to-mouth methods of finance continued; for Monica, who understood the management of money best, was not asked to take charge of it. Nor did it ever seriously occur to her that it should be so.

Monica never thought of herself as keeping Giles; she thought of it as financing the creation of The Golden Asse, which went swimmingly. Giles worked very hard, and during the time when he should have been teaching her (and he was still sending his bills to Domdaniel for her lessons) she kept up her work for Lantern, and provided him with food, comfort and companionship in bed. But other people thought of the situation quite differently, as she discovered within a few weeks.

Ripon had written to her soon after their meeting in Oxford, to ask her to go with him to the Vic-Wells Ball; he had been asked to go with a party, and wanted a partner. She grudged the money for the costume-hire, but when Ripon called for her, not very happily disguised as a toreador, she was ready in an outfit which included a large panniered skirt and a tricorne hat, which the costumier called a Venetian Domino.

The ball was held in the Albert Hall, not very far from Courtfield Gardens, and when they arrived the floor was well filled with those characters inseparable from such occasions. There were soldiers and sailors of all sorts, whole tribes of gypsies, Harlequins and Columbines in all shades, and platoons of Pierrots; there were fifteen or twenty head of Mephistopheleses, and quite as many Gretchens; Cavaliers and Roundheads abounded. These were the staples, the bread-and-butter, of disguise. In addition there were the lazy people who had come as monks, or simply as robed figures, and the over-zealous people who had come in costumes so ingenious and original that they could neither sit down nor dance, but wandered the floor smirking self-consciously, and hoping to be admired. The saddest of these was a gentleman whose costume consisted of a clever arrangement of Old Vic and Sadler’s Wells programmes; people kept stopping him to read the fine print, and to debate about what it said, quite as if he were not inside it. There were homosexuals in pairs and singly, their eyes—they hoped—speaking volumes to understanding hearts. A few Lesbians swaggered menacingly in very masculine costumes, smacking their riding-boots with whips. A pitiful little man, dressed with loving care to resemble Nijinsky in L’Après Midi d’un Faune, crept about in a contorted posture, meant to remind the beholder of the best-known picture of the great dancer in that part; but it was pathetically apparent that he had a crooked spine. Like all costume balls, it was a fascinating study in self-doubt, self-assurance, thwarted ambition, self-misprision, well-meaning ineptitude and, very occasionally, imagination or beauty.

Monica found it dull. A year ago she would have exulted in such an affair, but tonight she thought it rather silly, and was annoyed that Ripon had to wear his spectacles with his costume if he were not to trip over things and tumble on the stairs.

When he had gone to fetch drinks, she stood in one of the upper corridors, wondering how soon it would be before she could decently ask to be taken home. She was conscious that the door of a box near her had been opening and shutting indecisively, but she was taken unawares when a stumpy Mephistopheles burst from it, seized her arm, and dragged her inside. They were at the back of the box, which was otherwise unoccupied, and at a little distance, over the railing, the full rampaging splendour of The Veleta was to be seen. The Mephistopheles snorted within his mask for a moment, then seized Monica and kissed her.

She was too surprised to resist, conscious chiefly of the hot-buckram-and-glue smell of the mask, and when the Mephistopheles clutched at her again, she stumbled backward into a chair, bearing him down with her.

“It’s about time,” snorted the figure, in a Cork accent which could only belong to one person known to Monica.

“Mr Molloy!” she cried.

“You’d better call me Murtagh,” said the Mephistopheles, tearing off his mask, and showing a very red face. “We’ve some business together, my girl, that’s waited long enough.” He made another dart forward and thrust his hand deep into the bosom of the Venetian Domino. It was an inexpert move, too vigorous; the hooks on the back of her gown burst, and his hand stopped not far from Monica’s stomach. She seized his arm and removed it.