“I think we may call it a triumph,” whispered Humphrey Cobbler, as they bowed again and again.

“An undoubted triumph!” cried Miss Puss Pottinger, as Monica was led by Cobbler into the Bridgetower home. The house was full of people—more people than had been in it since Mrs Bridgetower’s funeral—and they all appeared to be in that state of excitement which follows a really satisfactory artistic achievement. Their excitement varied, of course. There were those who talked of the concert, and there were those who talked of politics and the stock market; but all their talk was a little more vivacious, or vehement, or pontifical because of what they had experienced; music had performed its ever-new magical trick of strengthening and displaying whatever happened to be the dominant trait in them.

But Cobbler knew his work too well to allow Monica to be snatched from him. With the technique of a professional bodyguard he guided her to the stairway, rushed her up it, and into the little second-floor sitting-room where Solly and Veronica were waiting with food and drink.

Singers must eat, and there have been those among them who have eaten too much. As amorousness is the pastime of players of stringed instruments, and horse-racing the relaxation of the brass section of the orchestra, so eating is the pleasure, and sometimes the vice, of singers. After a performance, a singer must be fed before he or she can be turned loose among their admirers, or else somebody may be insulted, or even bitten. Cobbler had told Veronica that Monica would need something substantial, and preferably hot. So, in the upstairs sitting-room, a dish of chops and green peas, a salad, a plate of fruit and a half-bottle of Beaune were in readiness.

As Monica devoured them gratefully—for she had eaten nothing since mid-day, and had taken only a glass of milk at five o’clock—a close observer might have thought that even more than a meal had been prepared. When Solly had given Cobbler a drink, he said that they really must go and talk to their guests, and led the accompanist away, leaving Monica and Veronica alone.

Veronica was a poor diplomat, and she had small relish for the task before her; but she had undertaken it on behalf of her husband, and she decided that the best thing was to jump in with both feet, and get it over.

“Monica—I hope you don’t mind me calling you Monica—Solly and I want to ask a favour of you. A large favour, and it isn’t easy to ask. But—we’re terribly hard up. And we wondered if you could possibly lend us some money.”

Monica looked up, not appearing to best advantage with her mouth full. This was one development she had not foreseen.

“I know it must seem strange to you, but I suppose you have heard about the conditions of my mother-in-law’s will?”

Monica shook her head. “Not a whisper,” said she.

“You must be one of the few people who hasn’t heard something. But of course you’ve been out of the country. Still, I thought your—some of your relatives might have written to you about it. It seems to us—to Solly and me—that everyone knows about it. Well, it’s complicated, but it comes to this; the Trust which supports you has all Mrs Bridgetower’s money for its funds. When she died, my husband was left one hundred dollars, and that was all. It was a blow; I know you’ll understand that. But it wasn’t as though he was free. The money may come to him; it will come to him if we have a male child. Had you not heard anything of that?”

“Nothing,” said Monica, and felt suddenly cold in the warm little room.

“Yes. If we have a male child, the Trust automatically ends. But till that time all the money goes to you. We had a child, you know—you didn’t?—well, we had a son, but he was born dead. It was a sore disappointment. Not wholly, or even mostly, because of the money but—you do understand, don’t you? We don’t hold ill-will against you. After all, it might have been somebody else—anybody with talent. But we’re chained to this house, which costs a terrible lot to keep up, even when the Trust undertakes to keep it in repair. And my husband is still only a lecturer, and even with Summer School fees, and what he can get by writing now and then for the radio, and so forth, we can’t keep our heads above water. We’re not merely broke; we’re terribly in debt. Now, of course Solly knows that the Trust has just made over $45,000 of surplus funds to you.—I hate saying this, but under other circumstances that would have been our money. I’m asking if you could let us have ten thousand, to tide us over?”

Monica looked, but could not speak.

“You see, we have hopes. We hope for another child. But suppose it isn’t a boy? Suppose there is never another boy? I don’t want to let myself talk about my mother-in-law, but it’s so cruel! If we could get free of the house, we might snap our fingers at the whole thing, but we can’t—at least we haven’t quite gone so far as to sacrifice all hopes in order to get out of this net. And meanwhile—you understand, don’t you, that I’m talking to you as a friend, and I’m not trying to wring your heart, really I’m not—I only want you to know how things are—our marriage is being twisted out of shape. Solly is a drudge, and I’m a baby-factory, bound to go on and on, until we have a son. It’s a horrible vengeance—because she hated me—because I took her son—”

Veronica was not a weeping woman, but her mute distress was more terrible to another woman than tears could be.

Oh God,—thought Monica, if only I had enough sense not to always tell everything I know! I’ve told Giles I’ve got $45,000, or close to it, when the funeral’s paid for, and that’s what he’ll be counting on. If I go back with less—I couldn’t explain it to him, ever. These people wouldn’t be real to him. Nothing’s real to him except the opera, and I’m real because I’ve been able to support him while he wrote it, and can help to pay to get it on.

But what can I tell Veronica? Tell her that an artistic venture demands every cent of this money, when she and her husband think of it as theirs? What could a plan like that mean to people who are in this sort of mess? Tell her my lover must have every penny I can get, like a tart giving her earnings to her pimp, for fear of a black eye? How real would Giles seem to them? What can I say?

The silence between them was more than either woman could bear, and it was Veronica who broke it.

“It would be a loan, of course, a matter of business—we wouldn’t dream of asking more than that. I mean, we’d have to arrange a rate of interest; we wouldn’t expect you to lose by it.”

Monica was frozen with discomfiture and pity, but she could not find anything to say. Veronica could not be silent, now; anything was better than silence. She continued:

“I know, of course, that what I’m asking you to do is quite illegal. Solly has tried to get loans out of the funds from Mr Snelgrove, and it can’t be done. If you let us have some money, we might all end in jail, I suppose. Or at best it would look terrible if anyone found out.”

Monica had to speak.

“I wouldn’t care how illegal it was, if I could help you,” said she. “I just can’t. There’s a very good reason—I swear to you that it’s a good reason—why I can’t, but at present I’m unable to explain it. I will explain as soon as I can, and as fully as possible. But you must believe that it isn’t greed, or stinginess, or because I don’t admire you and your husband very much, and want you to think well of me. But I can’t do it.”

“I thought that would be your answer,” said Veronica, without rancour; “Solly said you had spoken of a plan of some sort to the Trustees. But you see that I had to try, don’t you?”

The noise of the party mounted to them, and Solly came to fetch his wife and Monica. A quick glance told him what he most wanted to know, and he did not allow his obligatory high spirits, as host, to flag. To lose all hope is, in a way, to be free, and it often brings with it a lightening of mood. Downstairs they went, into a sea of compliments, of enthusiasm, of success.