“Whose money is it?” asked Solly, a light in his eye.

“It is Monica Gall’s money,” said Snelgrove, “and the sooner we get it off our hands the better I shall like it.”

“You are surely not suggesting that we give it to her in a lump sum,” said Miss Pottinger. “We are instructed to educate the girl, not to debauch her.”

“Must we suppose that she would use the money foolishly?” said Dean Knapp. “I have seen little of her, but what I saw, and the reports from Sir Benedict, certainly do not suggest that she is an imprudent girl. With some guidance by us such a sum might be put aside by her for future expenses incidental to her career. Everyone knows of cases in which a little money in hand has tided people over difficult times, and greatly smoothed their way.”

“It is not a little money,” said Miss Puss. “It is a great deal of money. Certainly it would never occur to me to call it a small sum. Of course, I have always had to manage rather carefully.”

This was a hint at the $3,500 a year which the Dean’s wife received from her father’s estate, a sum which, added to the Dean’s stipend, was supposed to make the Knapps unbecomingly worldly. Miss Pottinger, who had lived on inherited money all her life, was a positive socialist about the inherited money of other people.

“Big or little, I wish I had it,” said Solly. He looked shabby and sharp; his hair wanted cutting, and his grey flannel trousers wanted pressing. He could have afforded to make himself tidy, but tidiness did not accord with the character of Wronged Son which he now played regularly at the meetings of the Trustees. “Still, I agree that it is quite a lump to throw into her lap all at once. Surely this could have been foreseen? Why haven’t we made it over to her, or banked it for her, every quarter? Isn’t this rather late in the day to tell us about it?”

Mr Snelgrove looked at Solly for a little time before he spoke, choosing his words.

“The delay was my fault, Solomon,” said he. “I had some hopes, as you had yourself, that this Trust would not be of long duration. When we all heard the good news that you and Veronica were expecting a child, I said nothing about the matter, because I thought it might all be adjusted more agreeably when that child was born, and the Trust perhaps ended by that event. I accept any blame there may be. My intention was of the best.”

The Dean, always tactful, struck in.

“I suggest that we wire Miss Gall to come home at once, to relieve her mother’s mind. When she is here we can talk to her and make some arrangement which will satisfy the Public Trustee. And of course the Trust should bear all expenses.”

Thus it was decided, for even Miss Puss quaked at the bogy of the Public Trustee.

Through the long night which divided Canada from England, Monica was carried fifteen thousand feet above the ocean in the humming Limbo of a luxury aircraft. Mr Boykin had brought the word to Courtfield Gardens: “Your mother is seriously ill, and the Bridgetower Trustees think you had better go home for a time. I’ve made all arrangements, and everything is in this envelope. Can you be at the terminus tonight at six-thirty? Good. Now, you really mustn’t distress yourself.” Mrs Merry, whom Mr Boykin had fearfully enlisted as his ally in delivering this news, also urged Monica not to distress herself. As they seemed to expect it, she did her best to be somewhat distressed, and the thought of leaving Revelstoke gave her the necessary fuel for a show of concern. But she had no feeling of reality concerning the news about her mother. None of the Galls ever thought seriously about sickness or health, and death was a theological, rather than a physical, fact to them. Ma was ill. Well, Ma was always up and down but the strength of her spirit, in elation or depression, remained constant. She would find Ma depressed, no doubt, and in bed, but she would persuade Ma to feel better again, as she had done so often before. What might seem to be serious illness to outsiders was a different thing when you knew Ma.

But to return to Canada! As the plane sped on through the darkness it was as though a limb, long numbed, regained its feeling. She had had so much to do since Revelstoke began his work on The Golden Asse that even her perfunctory letter-writing had fallen far behind. She had so little time to write, she told herself; in her more honest moments she recognized that she had so little to write that would have made any sense to her readers at home. That had always been the trouble about letters—finding things that her family would be interested in, and of which they could approve. She was no writer. How could she make what she was doing real to her parents? How much could she reveal without bringing, in return, their mockery or a scolding?

The visit to Neuadd Goch, for instance, which was now more than a year behind her. She had told Ma something of it—a very little, really—about the beauty of the countryside, the charm of the house, and the kindness of the Hopkin-Griffiths. Ma’s reply had been sharp enough about “your swell new friends” and strongly disapproving of the news that Monica had been to a Christmas service as offered by the Church of England—”Does this mean you are changing your religion? What do you expect to get from that?” On the whole, it had been politic not to mention her small part in the Matthew Passion, or the perplexities and anguish which it had brought. That was the trouble; you couldn’t tell Ma anything really important without running a risk of hurting her. And it went without saying that her sharpness arose from hurt feelings; question that, and you might find yourself thinking that it sprang from ignorance, jealousy and meanness, which was inadmissible; loyalty could not permit such thoughts.

Loyalty! Monica had not forgotten her protestation of loyalty when George Medwall hinted that she might want to abandon some of the beliefs and attitudes of her family. She had meant it then, and she still meant it. But she had not realized how costly such loyalty might be. She had not foreseen that it could mean keeping two sets of mental and moral books—one for inspection in the light of home, and another to contain her life with Revelstoke, and all the new loyalties and attitudes which had come with Molloy, and particularly with Domdaniel. To close either set of books forever would be a kind of suicide, and yet to keep them both was hypocrisy. As Monica pondered her problem she felt that she was perplexed and tormented unendurably; but anyone looking at her on the plane might well have thought that she looked uncommonly animated and happy.

Letters were no good as a means of communication. She had written as faithfully and as fully as she could, but there were things which did not belong in letters, and which she would now have a chance to tell her mother face to face. And if her letters were poor and thin, what about the ones she received? Ma’s letters were a record of small facts…”thought I’d go to church this morning but did not feel I could tackle the stairs… your Dad is patching the linoleum in the upstairs hall, but it don’t hold the tacks like it used & guess will have to think of new… Donny is growing like a weed & is cute as a fox & says Ganny plain as plain.” And food, always food! Mrs Gall was a Sunday afternoon letter-writer, and every week contained a description of the Sunday menu … “Guess you don’t get eats like that over there Eh Monny?”

More informative were the letters of her sister Alice, now Mrs Charles Proby. Chuck Proby was getting on faster in the service of his bank than he had expected, and he had taken Alice to wife, and abandoned his idea that religion was a lot of crap at the same time. Religion had an important place in a young man’s progress. The Probys, however, had taken a long upward step in the religious world, for they had left the Thirteener fold and associated themselves with the United Church, where a vastly superior group of people were to be met. Their union had been blessed with a son, Donald, and snapshots and detailed accounts of the progress of this wondrous child made up the bulk of Alice’s letters. There was still room, however, for a general, nagging discontent to assert itself. Alice had Chuck and Donny; Chuck had a safe job and prospects; but life did not move quickly enough for Alice, who felt the need for a bigger house and a more important husband and an apparently endless list of labour-saving household devices. She frankly envied Monica, whose luck had been so good, and who had no problems, and nobody to consider but herself.