“I told you. It was breaking off with him forever. It was a cruel letter, and—” She could not finish.

“Have you it still? Could I see it?”

She had it with her always, for she could not destroy it, and yet she dared not leave it where it might be found. She gave it to him from her evening bag.

Sir Benedict read and .re-read it. “That’s what you call breaking off forever, is it?” said he. But Monica, who was weeping as she had not wept since Giles’ death, said nothing. He threw the letter into the fire, and in an instant it had gone forever.

“I believe that makes me what is called an accessory,” he said.

Sea-sickness has never been recommended for its tonic effect on the spirits, yet as Monica made her return voyage across the North Atlantic her distress of body was paralleled by a marked improvement in her state of mind. She could not account for it, and it was not like her to try. Confession to Domdaniel had been very helpful. She had wanted to tell someone of her guilt, and the only other possible person was Eccles, who would never have done. Not only was he convinced that he had killed Giles himself—though with the best of intentions—but he had gone on the booze, and could not be trusted to keep her secret. Still, he was a dear friend. He had given her the best of his sketches of Giles. It was the one which had appeared on the cover of the programme at the Commemorative Concert; Tuke had wanted it for his book, but Bun was determined that Tuke should not get it. This, and the fact that Aspinwall rather than himself had been asked to write the appreciation of Giles which appeared in that same programme, had made Tuke very waspish, and he had threatened to sue Monica for seizing the physical assets (a cardboard box of subscribers’ cards, five muddled files of dog-eared correspondence, a complete run of the magazine, and three cartons of assorted trash) of Lantern. But nothing would come of that. Nobody cared about Lantern any longer, save Raikes Brothers, who were trying to collect their bill from Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths. All that was behind her. And, to her surprise and shame, Giles seemed to be behind her, too. She grieved for him, but her guilt was retreating from her; he no longer appeared in her dreams. The numbness of her spirit was vanishing, and to her astonishment it left regret and bereavement, but little pain, behind it. When she stepped off the boat in Canada it was with the sensations of a widow, but not of a murderess. She was still sure that she had killed Giles, and that it was through grievous faults in her character that she had done so. But, somehow, she had accepted the fact. To that extent, at least, she had clarified her thinking.

Salterton, this first few days of December, was looking its grey worst. And her home, now that Ma was gone, was unwelcoming—not because of anything that was said or done, but because it was empty of spirit. Of course, there was the physical difficulty about beds. There were only two bedrooms; Dad had one, and Aunt Ellen the other. Monica declined the offer of a place in her aunt’s bed; sleeping alone or with a man had unfitted her for a tucking up with an elderly maiden lady who had two regular, resounding coughing-fits every night. Neither Dad nor Aunt Ellen was at home between half-past eight and half-past five, and what was Monica to do? She visited Alice once or twice, but that did not serve her turn, for when she was with her elder sister all London, all Paris, all self-possession and hard-won self-knowledge seemed to slip from her, and they quarrelled as bitterly as when they had shared the tiny bedroom at home. As bitterly? Far worse, now, for both had gained substance of personality. Alice was aggrieved that Monica had money; that it was money which had “fallen into her lap”; that her own ambition scorched mercilessly upon the need for a new and bigger house, whereas Monica had no such vital problem; that Monica had acquired high and mighty ways which (Ah, shade of Ma Gall!) could not possibly be real because she had not been born to them, and was therefore guilty of “sticking it on”. It was inconceivable to Alice that what had been learned, and thoroughly digested, could become more truly one’s nature than the attitudes and customs of the family into which one had been born. She was herself in flight from her family, but the ball and chain was always on her leg. She grudged Monica her freedom from this servitude, and believed that it had been easily won. A couple of visits to Alice were quite enough.

One obligatory evening, spent at the movies with George Medwall and Teresa Rook, and a silent friend of George’s, exhausted that source of companionship. She liked Kevin and Alex still, but could not conceal from herself the fact that they were a little afraid of her.

So there she was, sleeping on the sofa in the living-room of her father’s house, without even a place where she could stand her picture of Giles. She had to keep it in her music-case, and get it out like a miser his treasure, when nobody was at home.

It was foolish, and she knew it was foolish, but Monica caught herself thinking that it was somehow inconsiderate of everyone she knew to be working when she herself was on holiday: she was so much a Londoner now in her own estimation that she supposed that people in smaller places must necessarily be less busy than herself. What a fool I am, she thought, when she surprised herself in this mood; I need a metamorphosis, like Lucius in Giles’ opera. I’m in great danger of a love-affair with Number One.

But if the welcome of her family was feeble, that of the Bridgetowers was unexpectedly warm. Diffidently, Monica had telephoned to Veronica to inquire after her health, and had at once been asked to dinner. So friendly was the atmosphere that she was able to say how much she hoped that the child Veronica was carrying would be a boy, and so plain was her sincerity that Solly and Veronica believed this, at first appearance, improbable statement.

“It’s extremely good of you,” said Solly. “Of course, we have hopes. You know that things haven’t been easy. But we aren’t pinning everything on it. If it’s a boy—wonderful! If it isn’t, it’s not the end of the world. I think one of the secrets of life is that one must give up caring too much about anything. I know that sounds terrible, but for a lot of people it’s the only possible philosophy. You blunt the edge of fate by being stoical. My Mother cared too much about having her own way; result—a remarkable artist gets her start—well, that’s what they say about you, Monica, so don’t protest—an extraordinary opera gets its first production. Neither of them things Mother would have foreseen or desired, to be truthful. She just wanted to let us feel the weight of her hand. Well, let’s not talk about it any more, or I shall be saying things like ‘It makes you think, don’t it’.”

Not only from the Bridgetowers, but from the Cobblers, Monica received a flattering and heart-warming welcome. And though she had not meant to do any work for a time, she began to do some daily practice with Cobbler, to get her out of the unfriendly little box that she called her home. There was no piano there, for Aunt Ellen had been compelled to part with hers; her new home had no room for it.

It was Cobbler who persuaded Monica to sing on the occasion of the fourth Bridgetower Memorial Sermon. “Come on,” he said; “you sang at the old girl’s funeral. Since then you’ve become the great interpreter of Revelstoke’s songs, among other things. This maybe the last of these memorial capers—I’m betting on a boy—and we want to do it up right. The choir is going to do Lo, Star-Led Chiefs—top-notch Christmas rouser—because the Dean wants to preach about the Wise Men of the East. Now, why don’t you sing Cornelius’ Three Kings from his Weihnachtslieder and top the thing off in style? We’ll shove it up a couple of tones, and show what you can do. Come on, be a sport! This may be your last year on the Bridgetower gravy-train; why not show you’ve no hard feelings.”