Mildred Pierce Part 21

"Well my goodness, you act as if it was Europe. Certainly call her up. And you can tell her it's all settled about the house, at thirty thousand, without without any foolish deductions of five hundred and twenty dollars, or whatever it was. If that's what's been worrying her, tell her not to' worry any more." any foolish deductions of five hundred and twenty dollars, or whatever it was. If that's what's been worrying her, tell her not to' worry any more."

"I'd certainly love to."

He went to the den, and she went on with her dressing. The blue evening dress was long since outmoded, but she had another one, a black one, that she liked very well, and she had just laid it out when he appeared at the door. "She wants to speak to you."

"Who?"

"Mother."

In spite of success, money, and long experience at dealing with people, a qualm shot through Mildred as she sat down to the phone, in a hastily-donned kimono, to talk to this woman she had never met. But when she picked up the receiver and uttered a quavery h.e.l.lo, the cultured voice that spoke to her was friends.h.i.+p itself. "Mrs. Pierce?"

"Yes, Mrs. Beragon."

"Or perhaps you'd like me to call you Mildred?"

"I'd love it, Mrs. Beragon."

"I just wanted to say that Monty has told me about your plan to be married, and I think it splendid. I've never met you, but from all I've heard, from so many, many people I always felt you were the one wife for Monty, and I secretly hoped, as mothers often do, that one day it might come to pa.s.s."

"Well that's terribly nice of you, Mrs. Beragon. Did Monty tell you about the house?"

"He did, and I do want you to be happy there, and I'm sure you will. Monty is so attached to it, and he tells me you like it too-and that's a big step toward happiness isn't it?"

"I would certainly think so. And I do hope that some time you'll pay us a visit there, and, and—"

"I'll be delighted. And how is darling Veda?"

"She's just fine. She's singing, you know."

"My dear, I heard her, and I was astonished—not really of course, because I always felt that Veda had big things in her. But even allowing for all that, she quite bowled me over. You have a very gifted daughter, Mildred."

"I'm certainly glad you think so, Mrs. Beragon."

"You'll remember me to her?"

"I certainly will, Mrs. Beragon."

She hung up flushed, beaming, sure she had done very well, but Monty's face had such an odd look that she asked: "What's the matter?"

"Where is Veda?" is Veda?"

"She—took an apartment by herself, a few months ago. It bothered her to have all the neighbors listening while she vocalized."

"That must have been messy."

"It was—terrible."

Within a week, the Beragon mansion looked as though it had been hit by bombs. The main idea of the alterations, which were under the supervision of Monty, was to restore what had been a large but pleasant house to what it had been before it was transformed into a small but hideous mansion. To that end the porticoes were torn off, the iron dogs removed, the 'palm trees grubbed up, so the original grove of live oaks was left as it had been, without tropical incongruities. What remained, after all this hacking, was so much reduced in size that Mildred suddenly began to feel some sense of ident.i.ty with it. When the place as it would be began to emerge from the scaffolding, when the yellow paint had been burned off with torches and replaced with a soft white wash, when green shutters were in place, when a small, friendly entrance had taken the place of the former Monticello effect, she began to fall in love with it, and could hardly wait until it was finished. Her delight increased when Monty jud'ged the exterior sufficiently advanced to proceed with the interior, and its furnis.h.i.+ngs. His mood continued dark, and he made no more allusions to the $520, or Glendale, or anything of a personal kind. But he seemed bent on pleasing Mildred, and it constantly surprised her, the way he was able to translate her ideas into paint, wood, and plaster.

About all she was able to tell him was that she "liked maple," but with this single bone as a clue, he reconstructed her whole taste with surprising expertness. He did away with paper, and had the walls done in delicate kalsomine. The rugs he bought in solid colors, rather light, so the house took on a warm, informal look. For the upholstered furniture he chose bright, inexpensive coverings, enunciating a theory to Mildred: "In whatever pertains to comfort, shoot the works. A room won't look comfortable unless it is comfortable, and comfort costs money. But on whatever pertains to show, to decoration alone, be a little modest. People will really like you better if you aren't so d.a.m.ned rich." It was a new idea to Mildred, and appealed to her so much that she went around meditating about it, and thinking how she could apply it to her restaurants.

He asked permission to hang some of the paintings of his ancestors, as well as a few other small pictures that had been stored for him by friends. However, he didn't give undue prominence to these things. In what was no longer a drawing room, but a big living room, he found place for a collection of Mildred Pierce, Inc.: Mildred's first menu, her first announcements, a photograph of the Glendale restaurant, a snapshot of Mildred in the white uniform, other things that she didn't even know he had saved—all enlarged several times, all effectively framed, all hung together, so as to form a little exhibit. At first, she had been self-conscious about them, and was afraid he had hung them there just to please her. But when she said something to this effect, he put down his hammer and wire, looked at her a moment or two, then gave her a compa.s.sionate little pat. "Sit down a minute, and take a lesson in interior decorating."

"I love lessons in decorating."

"Do you know the best room I was ever in?"

"No, I don't."

"It's that den of yours, or Bert's rather, over in Glendale. Everything in that room meant something to that guy. Those banquets, those foolish-looking blueprints of houses that will never be built, are a part of him. They do things to you. That's why the room is good. And do you know the worst room I was ever in?"

"Go on, I'm learning."

"It's that living room of yours, right in the same house. Not one thing in it—until the piano came in, but that's recent—ever meant a thing, to you, or him, or anybody. It's just a room, I suppose the most horrible thing in the world. . . . A home is not a museum. It doesn't have to be furnished with Pica.s.so paintings, or Sheraton suites, or Oriental rugs, or Chinese pottery. But it does have to be furnished with things that mean something to you you. If they're just phonies, bought in a hurry to fill up, it'll look like that living room ,over there, or the way this lawn looked when my father got through showing how much money he had. . . . Let's have this place the way we want it. If you don't like the Pie Wagon corner, I do."

"I love it."

"Then it stays."

From then on, Mildred began to feel proud of the house and happy about it, and particularly relished the last hectic week, when hammer, saw, phone bell, and vacuum cleaner mingled their separate songs into one lovely cacophony of preparation. She moved Letty over, with a room of her own, and Tommy, with a room and a private bath. She engaged, at Monty's request, Kurt and Frieda, the couple who had worked for Mrs. Beragon before "es went kaput," as Kurt put it. She drove to Phoenix, with Monty, and got married.

For a week after this quiet courthouse ceremony she was almost frantic. She had addressed Veda's announcement herself, and the papers were full of the nuptials, with pictures of herself and lengthy accounts of her career, and pictures of Monty 'and just as lengthy accounts of his career. But there was no call from Veda, no visit, no telegram, no note. Many people dropped in: friends of Monty's, mostly, who treated her very pleasantly, and didn't seem offended when she had to excuse herself, in the afternoon at any rate, to go to work. Bert called, with all wishes for her happiness, and sincere praise for Monty, whom he described as a "thoroughbred." She was surprised to learn that he was living with Mom and Mr. Pierce. Mrs. Biederhof's husband having struck oil in Texas, and she having joined him there. Mildred had always supposed Mrs. Biederhof a widow, and so apparently had Bert. Yet the call that Mildred hoped for didn't come. Monty, well aware by now that a situation of some sort existed with regard to Veda, rather pointedly didn't notice her mood, or make any inquiries about it.

And then one night at Laguna, Mrs. Gessler appeared around eight in a bright red evening dress, and almost peremptorily told Mildred to close the place, as she herself was invited out. Mildred was annoyed, and her temper didn't improve when Archie took off his regimentals at nine sharp, and left within a minute or two. She was in a gloomy irritable humor going home, and several times called Tommy down for driving too fast. Until she was at the door of her new house, she didn't notice that a great many cars seemed to be parked out front, and even then they made no particular impression on her. Tommy, instead of opening for her, rang the bell twice, then rang it twice again. She was opening her mouth to say something peevish about people who forget their keys, when lights went up all over the first floor, and the door, as though of its own accord, swung slowly open, wide open. Then, from somewhere within, a voice, the only voice in the world to Mildred, began to sing. After a long time' Mildred heard a piano, realized Veda was singing the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin. "Here comes the bride," sang Veda, but "comes" was' hardly the word. Mildred floated in, seeing faces, flowers, dinner coats, paper hats, heanng laughter, applause, greetings, as things in a dream. When Veda, still singing, came over, took her in her arms, and kissed her, it was almost more than she could stand, and she stumbled hurriedly out, and let Monty take her upstairs, on the pretext that she must put on a suitable dress for the occasion.

A few years before, Mildred would have been incapable of presiding over such a party: her commonplaceness, her upbringing, her sense of inferiority in the presence of "society people," would have combined to make her acutely miserable, completely incompetent. Tonight, however, she was a completely charming hostess and guest of honor, rolled into one. In the black evening dress, she was everywhere, seeing that people had what they wanted, seeing that Archie, who presided in the kitchen, and Kurt, Frieda, and Letty, a.s.sisted by Arline and Sigrid, from the Pie Wagon itself, kept things going smoothly. Most of the guests were Pasadena people friends of Veda's and Monty's, but her waitress training, plus her years as Mildred Pierce, Inc., stood her in good stead now. She had acquired a memory like a filing cabinet, and had everybody's name as soon as she heard it, causing even Monty to look at her with sincere admiration. But she was pleased that he had asked such few friends as she had: Mrs. Gessler, and Ida, and particularly Bert, who looked unusually handsome in his dinner coat, and helped with the drinks, and turned music for Mr. Treviso when Veda, importuned by everybody, graciously consented to sing.

Mildred wanted to cry when people began to leave, and then discovered that the evening had hardly begun. The best part came when she, and Veda, and Monty sat around in the small library, across from the big living room, and decided that Veda should spend the night, and talked. Then Monty, not at all reverent in the presence of art, said: "Well G.o.ddam it, how did you get to be a singer? When I I discovered you, practically pulled you out of the gutter, you were a pianist, or supposed to be. Then I no sooner turn my back than you turn into some kind of a yodeler." discovered you, practically pulled you out of the gutter, you were a pianist, or supposed to be. Then I no sooner turn my back than you turn into some kind of a yodeler."

"Well G.o.ddam it, it was an accident."

"Then report."

"I was at the Philharmonic."

"Yes, I've been there."

"Listening to a concert. And they played the Schubert Unfinished. And afterwards I was walking across the park, to my car, and I was humming it. And ahead of me I could see him walking along—"

"Who?"

"Treviso."

"Oh yes, the Neapolitan Stokowski."

"So I had plenty of reason for not walking to meet the honorable signor, because I'd played for him once, and he wasn't at all appreciative. So I slowed down, to let him get ahead. But then he stopped, and turned around, and looked, and then he came over to me, and said: 'Was that you singing?' Well, I have to explain that I wasn't so proud of my singing just about that time. I used to sing Hannen's songs for him, whenever he wrote one, but he used to kid me about it, because I sang full chest, and sounded exactly like a man. He called me the Glendale Baritone. Well, that was Charlie, but I didn't know why I had to take any kidding off Treviso. So I told him it didn't concern him whether I was singing or not, but he grabbed me by the arm, and said it concerned him very much, and me. Then he took 'a card from his pocket, and a pen, and ran under a light, and wrote his address on it, and handed it to me, and told me to be there the next day at four o'clock, that it was important. So that night I had it out with myself. I knew, when he handed me the card, that he had no recollection he had ever seen me before, so there was no question of kidding. But But—did I want to unlock that door again or not?"

"What door?"

Monty was puzzled, but Mildred knew which door, even before Veda went on: "Of music. I'd driven a knife through its heart, and locked it up, and thrown the key away, and now here was Treviso, telling me to come down and see him tomorrow, at four o'clock. And do you know why I went?"

Veda was dead serious now, and looking at them both as though to make sure they got things straight. "It was because once he had told me the truth. I had hated him for it, the way he had closed the piano in front of me without saying a word, but it was his way of telling me, and it was the truth. So I thought maybe he was telling me the truth now. So I went. And for a week he worked on me, to get me to sing like a woman, and then it began to come the right way, and I could hear what he had heard that night out there in the park. And then he began to tell me how important it was that I become a musician. I had the voice, he said, if I could master music. And he gave me the names of this one and that one, who could teach me theory, and sight-reading, and piano, and I don't know what-all."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, and did I get my revenge, for that day when he closed the piano on me. I asked him if there was a little sight-reading he wanted done, and he handed me the Inflammatus from Rossini's Stabat Mater. Well nuts. I went through that like a hot knife through b.u.t.ter, and he began to get excited. Then I asked him if he had a little job of arranging he wanted done, and then I told him about Charlie, and reminded him I'd been in there before. Well, if he'd hit gold in Death Valley he couldn't have acted more like a goof. He went all over me with instruments, little wooden hammers that he used on my knuckles, and caliper things that went over my nose, and gadgets with lights on them that went down my throat. Why he even—"

Veda made curious, prodding motions just above her midriff, while Monty frowned incredulously. "Yes! Believe it or not, he even dug his fingers in the Dairy. Well! I didn't exactly know what to think, or do."

Veda could make a very funny face when she wanted to, and Monty started to laugh. In spite of herself, so did Mildred. Veda went on: "But it turned out he wasn't interested in love. He was interested in meat. He said it enriched the tone."

"The what? what?"

Monty's voice rose to a whoop as he said this, and the next thing they knew, the three of them were howling with laughter, howling at Veda's Dairy as they had howled at Mrs. Biederhof's bosom, that first night, many years before.

When Mildred went to bed her stomach hurt from laughter, her heart ached from happiness. Then she remembered that while Veda had kissed her, that first moment when she had entered the house, she still hadn't kissed Veda. She tiptoed into the room she had hoped Veda would occupy, knelt beside the bed as she had knelt so many times in Glendale, took the lovely creature in her arms and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay, to blow through the holes in Veda's pajamas. And when she got back to her room she couldn't bear it that Monty should be there. She wanted to be 'alone, to let these little laughs come bubbling out of her, to think about Veda.

Monty agreed to withdraw to the tackroom as he called the place where he stored his saddles, bridles, and furniture from the shack, with complete good humor—with more good humor, perhaps, than a husband should show, at such a request.

CHAPTER XVI.

MILDRED NOW ENTERED the days of her apotheosis. War was cras.h.i.+ng in Europe, but she knew little of it, and cared less. She was drunk with the glory of the Valhalla she had entered: the house among the oaks, where dwelt the girl with the coppery hair, the lovely voice, and the retinue of admirers, teachers, coaches, agents, and thieves who made life so exciting. For the first time. Mildred became acquainted with theatres, opera houses, broadcasting studios, and such places, and learned something of the heartbreak they can hold. There was, for example, the time Veda sang in a local performance of Traviata, given at the Philharmonic under the direction of Mr. Treviso. She had just had the delightful sensation of beholding Veda alone on stage for at least ten minutes, and at the intermission went out into the lobby, to drink in the awestruck comment of the public. To her furious surprise, a voice behind her, a man's voice, with effeminate intonation, began: "So that's La Pierce, radio's gift to the lyric muse. Well, there's no use telling me, you can't raise singers in Glendale. Why, the girl's simply nauseating. She gargles it over her tonsils in that horrible California way, she's off pitch half the time, and as for acting-did you notice her routine, after Alfredo went off? She had no routine. She planted one heel on that dime, locked both hands in front of her, and just stayed there until . . ."

While Mildred's temples throbbed with helpless rage, the voice moved off somewhere, and another one began, off to one side: "Well, I hope you all paid close attention to the critique of operatic acting, by one who knows nothing about it—somebody ought to tell tell that f.a.g that the whole test of operatic acting is how few motions they have to make, to put across what they're trying to deliver. John Charles Thomas, can he make them wait till he's ready to shoot it! And Flagstad, how to be an animated Statue of Liberty! And Scotti, I guess he was nauseating. He was the greatest of them all. Do you know how many gestures he made when he sang the Pagliacci Prologue? One, just one. When he came to the F—poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he could never quite make the A flat—he raised his hand, and turned it over, palm upward. That was all, and he made you that f.a.g that the whole test of operatic acting is how few motions they have to make, to put across what they're trying to deliver. John Charles Thomas, can he make them wait till he's ready to shoot it! And Flagstad, how to be an animated Statue of Liberty! And Scotti, I guess he was nauseating. He was the greatest of them all. Do you know how many gestures he made when he sang the Pagliacci Prologue? One, just one. When he came to the F—poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he could never quite make the A flat—he raised his hand, and turned it over, palm upward. That was all, and he made you cry cry. . . . This kid, if I ever saw one right out of that can, she's it. So she locked her hands in front of her, did she? Listen, when she folded one sweet little paw into the other sweet little paw, and tilted that pan at a forty-five degree angle, and began to warble about the delicious agony of love—I saw Scotti's little girl. My throat came up in my mouth. Take it from me, this one's in the money, or will be soon. Well, h.e.l.l, it's what you pay for, isn't it?"

Then Mildred wanted to run after the first man, and stick out her tongue at him, and laugh. Some things, to be sure, she tried not to think about, such as her relations with Moray. Since the night Veda came home, Mildred had been unable to have him near her, or anybody near her. She continued to sleep alone, and he, for a few days, to sleep in the tackroom. Then she a.s.signed a bedroom to him, with bath, dressing room, and phone extension. The only time the subject of their relations was ever discussed between them was when he suggested that he pick out his furniture himself; on that occasion, she had tried to be facetious, and said something about their being "middle-aged." To her great relief, he quickly agreed, and looked away, and started talking about something else. From then on, he was host to the numerous guests, master of the house, escort to Mildred when she went to hear Veda sing—but he was not her husband. She felt better about it when she noted that much of his former gaiety had returned. In a way, she had played him a trick. If, as a result he was enjoying himself, that was the way she wanted it.

And there were certain disturbing aspects of life with Veda, as for example the row with Mr. Levinson, her agent. Mr. Levinson had signed Veda to a radio contract singing for Pleasant Pleasant, a new brand of mentholated cigarettes that was just coming on the market. For her weekly broadcast Veda received $500, and was "sewed," as Mr. Levinson put it, for a year, meaning that during this period she could do no broadcasting for anybody else. Mildred thought $500 a week a fabulous stipend for so little work, and so apparently did Veda, until Monty came home one day wi'th Mr. Hobey, who was president of Consolidated Foods, and had decided to spend part of his year in Pasadena. They were in high spirits, for they had been in college together: it was Mr. Hobey's mountainous, shapeless form that reminded Mildred that Monty was now in his forties. And Mr. Hobey met Veda. And Mr. Hobey heard Veda sing. And Mr. Hobey experienced a slight lapse of the senses, apparently, for he offered her $2,500 a week, a two-year contract, and a guarantee of mention in 25% of Consol's national advertising, if she would only sing for Sunbake Sunbake, a new vitamin bread he was promoting. Veda, now sewed, was unable to accept, and for some days after that her profanity, her studied, cruel insults to Mr. Levinson, her raving at all hours of the day and night, her monomania on this one subject, were a little more than even Mildred could put up with amiably. But while Mildred was trying to 'think what to do, Mr. Levinson rerevealed an unexpected ability 'to deal with such situations himself. He bided his time, waited until a Sunday afternoon, when highb.a.l.l.s were being served on the lawn out back, and Veda chose to bring up the subject again, in front of Mildred, Monty, Mr. Hobey, and Mr. Treviso. A pasty, judgy little man in his late twenties, he lit a cigar, and listened with half-closed eyes. Then he said: "O.K. ya dirdy li'l rat. Now s'pose ya take it back. Now s'pose ya 'pologize. Now s'pose ya say ya sorry."

"I? Apologize? to you? you?"

"I got a offer for ya."

"What offer?"

"Bowl."

"Then, accept. . . . If the terms are suitable."

Mr. Levinson evidently noted how hard it was for Veda to say anything at all about terms, for the Hollywood Bowl is singer's heaven. He smiled a little, and said: "Not so fast, baby. It's kind of a double offer. They'll take Pierce or they'll take Opie Lucas—they leave it to me. I handle ya both, and Opie, she don't cuss me out. She's nice."

"A contralto's no draw."

"Contralto gets it if you don't 'pologize."

There was silence in the sunlight, while Veda's mouth became thick and wet, and Mr. Treviso smiled at a dancing mote, looking like a very benign cadaver. After a long time, Veda said: "O.K., Levy. I apologize."

Mr. Levinson got up, walked over to Veda, 'and slapped her hard, on 'the cheek. Monty and Mr. Hobey jumped up, but Mr. Levinson paid no attention. His soft, pendulous lower lip hanging down, he spoke softly to Veda: "What ya say now?"

Veda's face turned pink, then crimson, then scarlet, and her light blue eyes stared at Mr. Levinson with a fixity characteristic of certain varieties of shark. There was another dreadful pause, and Veda said: "O.K."

"Then O.K. And lemme tell ya someth'n, Pierce. Don't ya start noth'n with Moe Levinson. Maybe ya don't know where ya comin' out." Before sitting down, Mr. Levinson turned to Mr. Hobey. "Opie Lucas, she's free. She's free and she's hot. You want her? For twenny-five hunnerd?"

". . . No."

"I thought not."

Mr. Levinson resumed his seat. Monty and Mr. Hobey resumed their seats, Mr. Treviso poured himself a spoonful of the red wine he had elected, instead of a highball, and shot a charge of seltzer into it.

For the rest of the summer Mildred did nothing, and Veda did nothing, but get ready for this appearance at the Bowl. There were innumerable trips to buy clothes: apparently a coloratura couldn't merely buy a dress, and let it go at that. All sorts of questions had to be considered, such as whether the material took up light, from the spots, or reflected it, whether it gave, or whether it took. Then the question of 'a hat had to be decided. Veda was determined she must have one, a little evening affair that she could remove after the intermission, "to give some sense of progression, a gain in intimacy." These points were a little beyond Mildred, but she went eagerly to place after place, until a dressmaker in the Sunset Strip, near Beverly Hills, seemed to be indicated, and presently made the dress. It was, Mildred thought, incomparably lovely. It was bottlegreen, with a pale pink top, and a bodice that laced in front. With the little green bonnet' it gave a sort of French garden-party effect. But Veda tried it on a dozen times, unable to make up her mind whether it was right. The question, it seemed, was whether it "looked like vaudeville." "I can't come out looking like both Gish sisters," said Veda, and when Mildred replied th'at neither of the Gish sisters had ever been in vaudeville, so far as she knew, Veda stared in the mirror and said it was all the same thing. In the end, she decided the bodice was "too much," and took it off. In truth, Mildred thought, the dress did look a little fresher, a little simpler, a little more suitable to a girl of twenty, than it had before. Still unsatisfied, Veda decided presently she would carry a parasol. When the parasol arrived, and Veda entered the 'living room, one night, as she would enter the Bowl, she got a hand. Mildred knew, and they all knew, that this was it.

Then there was the question of the newspapers, and how they should be handled. Here again, it seemed out of the question merely to call up the editors, tell them a local girl was going to appear, and leave the' rest to their judgment. Veda did a great deal of telephoning about the "releases," as she called them, and then when the first item about her came out, she went into a rage almost as bad as the one that had been provoked by Mr. Hobey. At the end of an afternoon in which she tried vainly to locate Mr. Levinson, that gentleman arrived in person, and Veda marched around in a perfect lather: "You've got to stop it, Levy, you've got to kill this society girl stuff right now! And the Pasadena stuff! What do they want to do, kill my draw? And get me razzed off the stage when I come on? How many society people are there in this town, anyway? And how many Pasadena people go to, concerts? Glendale! And radio! And studied right here in Los Angeles! There's twenty-five thousand seats in that place, Levy, and those b.o.o.bs have got to feel that I'm their little baby, that I'm one of them, th'at they've got to come out there and root for me."

Mr. Levinson agreed, and seemed to regard the matter as important. Mildred, despite her wors.h.i.+p of Veda, felt indignant that she should now claim Glendale as her own, after all the mean things she had said about it. But the mood pa.s.sed, and she abandoned herself to the last few days before the concert. She took three boxes, holding four seats each, feeling sure that these would be enough for herself, Monty, and such few people as she would care to invite. But then the Bowl began calling up, saying they had another lovely box available, and she began remembering people she hadn't thought of before. In a day or so, she had asked Mom and Mr. Pierce, her mother and sister, Harry Engel and William, Ida and Mrs. Gessler, and Bert. All accepted except Mrs. Gessler, who rather pointedly declined. Mildred now had six boxes, with more than twenty guests expected, and as many more invited to the supper she was giving, afterwards.

According to Bert, who sat on the edge of her box and unabashedly held her hand, it had been a magnificent job o'f promotion, and the thing was a sell-out. So it seemed, for people were pouring through all entrances, and Bert pointed to the upper tiers of seats, already filling up, by which, he said, "you could tell." Mildred had come early, so she "wouldn't miss anything," particularly the crowd, and knowing that all these people had come just to hear her child sing. It was almost dark when Monty, who had driven Veda, slipped into the box and shook hands with Bert. Then the orchestra ified into the sh.e.l.l, and for a few minutes 'there was the sound of tuning. Then the lights went up, and the orchestra came to attention. Mildred looked around, and for the first time felt the vastness of the place, with these thousands of people sitting there waiting, and still other thousands racing up the ramps and along the aisles, to get to their seats. Then there was a crackle of applause, and she looked around in time to see Mr. Treviso, who was to conduct, mounting his little stand, bowing to the audience and to the orchestra. Without turning around, Mr. Treviso raised his hand. The audience stood. Bert and Monty stood, both very erect, both with stern, n.o.ble looks on their faces. Bewildered, Mildred stood. The orchestra crashed into the Star-Spangled Banner, and the crowd began to sing.

The first number, called the Fire Bird, meant nothing to Mildred. She couldn't make out, after reading her program, whether there was to be a ballet or not, and she wasn't at all certain, after it finished, whether there had been one or not. She concluded, while Mr. Treviso was still acknowledging his applause, that if there had been one she would have noticed it. He went out, the lights went up, and for a long time there was a murmur like the murmur of the ocean, as the later corners ran, beckoned to each other, and followed hurrying ushers, to find their seats. Then the murmur died off a little. The lights 'went out. A drawstring pulled tight on Mildred's stomach.

The parasol, wide open and framing the bonnet in a luminous pink circle, caught the crowd by surprise, and Veda was in the center of the stage before they recovered. Then they decided they liked it, and the applause broke sharp. For a moment Veda stood there, smiling at them, smiling at the orchestra, smiling at Mr. Treviso. Then expertly, she closed the parasol, planted it on the floor in front of her, and 'folded both hands over its rather high handle. Mildred, having learned to note such things by now, saw that it gave her a piquant, foreign look, and something to do with her hands. The first number, Caro Nome Caro Nome, from Rigoletto, went off well, and Veda was recalled for several bows. The second number, Una Voce Poco Fa Una Voce Poco Fa, from the Barber of Seville, ended the first half of the concert. The lights we'nt up. People spilled into the aisles, smoking, talking, laughing, visiting. Bert was sitting on the box again, saying it was none of his business, but in his opinion that conductor could very well have allowed Veda to sing an encore after all that applause. By G.o.d, that was an ovation if he ever heard one. Monty, not much more of an authority in this field than Bert was, but at least a little more of an authority, said it was his impression that no encores were ever sung in 'the first half of a program. All that, said Monty, in his understanding at least, was reserved for the end. Mildred said she was sure that was the case. Bert said then it was his mistake and that explained it. Because if he knew anything about it, these people were eating it up, and it did look as though Treviso would want to give the kid a break, if he could. All agreed that the people were eating it up.