“You’ve got the better part of five weeks,” said Nellie. “Of course we’ll be rehearsing here a great deal, and you won’t be able to work while we are busy, but you’ll have your mornings to yourself as a general thing.”

“Now just a minute, ma’am—” he began, but Valentine cut him short.

“I think it would be well if I made all the arrangements with Mr—?” She paused.

“Gwalchmai’s the name, miss; Thomas Gwalchmai.” Rarely has the fine old Welsh name of Gwalchmai sounded less accommodating to the lazy Saxon tongue than as Tom spoke it then.

“With Mr Gwalchmai,” said Valentine, smiling pleasantly and pronouncing it to perfection. “We shan’t need a raised stage, and it would be unthinkable to dig a pit in this perfect lawn. We have done quite enough damage as it is. Shall we say then, Mr Gwalchmai, that nothing need be done to the grounds until it has been discussed with me?”

“Well, I don’t want to be a stumbling-block, miss,” said Tom, much softened, “but there’s a limit to what can be done, and—”

“Of course there is,” said Valentine. “But it will be most helpful if we may rehearse here during the evenings and perhaps on a few afternoons, as well.”

“Oh, that’ll be quite all right, miss,” said Tom, eager to please.

Later, when they had gone inside the house for further discussion, Professor Vambrace complimented Valentine on the skill with which she had managed Tom, whom he described as “an obstructionist—hide-bound, like all people who live close to the soil.”

“He seems very nice,” she replied; “we must be careful to give him his due; that’s the secret of getting on with most people.”

Professor Vambrace, who had a deep conviction that he himself had never received his due, assented earnestly. Larry Pye, who considered himself a born colonel who had been kept down by jealousy in high places, nodded vigorously. The world is full of people who believe that they have never had their due, and they are the slaves of anyone who seems likely to make this deferred payment. Valentine, in a few days, had assumed this character among them, and they were all convinced that she was a woman of extraordinary penetration. She never sought or demanded anything for herself, she was ready to listen to everybody, within reason, she had no interest in humiliating or thwarting anybody, and in consequence all the keys of power in the Salterton Little Theatre had been gathered into her hands.

Always excepting, of course, those widespread powers which Nellie regarded as her own. She had, as she explained to Roscoe, grown up with Valentine Rich, and although Valentine had undoubtedly made a name for herself in the theatre she, Nellie, had gained what was perhaps an even wider experience. In the Little Theatre, she always said, you got a broader grounding; she had painted scenery, made costumes, acted, directed, dealt with matters of business, done everything, really, that could be done in a theatre. What was more, she knew Salterton as Valentine did not, and she had to see that no local apple-cart was upset. Oh, she didn’t deny for a moment that Valentine knew her job, but after all, Salterton was not New York, and there was no good pretending that it was.

When it was time to talk about music for the play, therefore, Nellie felt obliged to make her opinions known.

“You needn’t worry about it at all,” said she; “I arranged everything with Mr Snairey last week. The Snairey Trio should sound lovely in the open air. And he’s had experience, you know.”

“Surely that isn’t old Snairey who used to play in the Empire for vaudeville when we were children,” said Valentine.

“I should think he played there when your grandfather was a lad,” said Solly. “You don’t seriously mean that you’ve asked him, Mrs F.?”

“Of course I do. He says he has some lovely music which theatre orchestras always play for Shakespeare; Sir Edward German’s Henry VIII dances.”

“I see,” said Valentine, in a voice which suggested that she saw more than Nellie. “And what about the songs?”

“I mentioned them, and he said he thought he could fake something. His daughter Loura can sing offstage, and the girls onstage can fill in with mime. He hasn’t any music for the songs in the play, but he said he thought we could use something pretty and Old English.”

“From what I know of old Snairey, that means that they will play William Tell during the storm scene, and Ariel will flit across the stage to the strains of The Farmer’s Boy. Really, Mrs P., you’ve done it this time.”

“Oh Solly, don’t be so superior,” said Nellie; “there are a million things to be done, and I appear to be the only one ready to do them. If you know so much, why didn’t you arrange about the music?”

“Because nobody asked me to,” said Solly, bitterly.

“Well, it’s settled now, for good or ill.”

“No,” said Valentine; “Mr Snairey can be dealt with, I expect. Very likely he and his Trio can play, but someone must see that suitable music is provided. Who is the best musician in town?”

“Myrtle Swann, by long odds,” said Nellie; “they say she has forty pupils.”

“But we don’t want a piano teacher; we want someone who can direct an orchestra and some singers,” said Valentine.

“The obvious man is Humphrey Cobbler,” said Solly.

“Oh heavens, you can’t have him,” said Nellie; “he’s not right in his head.”

“Who says so?” said Solly.

“Oh, lots of people at the Cathedral. And he’s such an untidy dresser. And sometimes he laughs out loud at nothing. And he never gets his hair cut.”

“He has many of the superficial marks of genius,” said Valentine. “Who is he?”

“The organist and choirmaster at St Nicholas’,” said Solly. “I assumed he would be the first man to be asked.”

“Not by me,” said Nellie. “They say he’s a Drinker.”

“That’s probably just a mannerism from being an organist,” said Valentine; “they use their feet very oddly. Go and see him, Solly, and find out what can be done.”

Nellie bit her lip, and said nothing. She thought of telling Valentine and Solly that Salterton was not New York, but decided to let them find it out for themselves.

Having decided that he was in love with Griselda, Hector reflected that he must devise some clever scheme to let her know it. He was not a reader of novels, and he very rarely went to the movies, but he felt that he knew enough about romance to carry out his plan in his accustomed efficient and successful manner. His problem was, he told himself, simple enough in essence: he loved Griselda; he would give gradually stronger hints that this was so until he was able to make an outright declaration; that done, she would love him, for he considered it impossible that a woman should be loved without loving in return; he had heard of such cases, but they did not involve young and inexperienced girls; he and Griselda would then love each other. Beyond that point he did not think. One thing at a time. Affection would beget affection; that, he assured himself, was what always happened.

The disparity in their ages was against him, in a way. And yet, had she not started the affair by that smile which she had given him? He did not attach too much meaning to it, but he did not discount it, either. Well, here was a field in which he had never tried planning and common sense before, but he would not desert those tried and true friends now. In the black notebook, over a period of a week, appeared a page filled thus: