"Giles and I want to play something for Mrs Merry," said he. "It is called Paraphrases, and it is what all musicians play when they are happy."

Drawing Revelstoke down at the piano by his side, Domdaniel compelled him to join in a duet; with great verve and gusto they played the twenty-four variations on Chopsticks which were written by Liszt, Borodin, Cui and Rimsky-Korsakov. Mrs Merry, very much at the mercy of her feelings and with her remaining self-possession disappearing beneath the champagne, managed to get to the piano, against which she posed, smiling soulfully at Sir Benedict until, suddenly, all meaning disappeared from her face and she fell heavily to the floor.

Eccles, expert in such affairs, lifted her head and fanned her. Mrs Merry opened her eyes, and she smiled blissfully. "Put me to bed and don't bend me," said she. And thus the party ended.

[TWO].

On stage and screen the business of getting a drunken person to bed is always represented as uproariously funny. Monica, Revelstoke and Eccles found it merely laborious. Mrs Merry was a Junoesque woman in her late fifties; as a deadweight, she was not easily budged. It seemed that they had no sooner stuffed her untidily into a taxi at Dean's Yard, than they had to haul her out of it at Courtfield Gardens. The men held her upright while Monica paid the taxi, and while they hoisted her up the steps, Monica retrieved her shoes, which fell off in that process. When they got her inside, there was the problem of the stairs. It was not that she was so heavy (though she was substantial) as that she offered no handholds. They made a Boy Scout chair with their hands, but in her satin gown she slipped twice to the floor before the first step was mounted. At last they were compelled to take Mrs Merry up her own staircase as if she were a piano; Eccles crawled up the steps on his hands and knees, with Mrs Merry on his back, steadied, and to some extent borne, by Revelstoke and Monica. It was slow, noisy and toilsome. When they reached the landlady's room they tumbled her into bed with everything on but her shoes, and climbed on to Monica's quarters, greatly exhausted.

"Good thing I liberated this," said Bun, pulling a bottle of Sir Benedict's champagne out of one of the large poacher's pockets in his jacket. "Don't suppose you've such a thing as a bottle of brandy, Monny?"

Monica had not. Eccles was philosophic. He removed the wire from the bottle and then, seizing the bulbous part of the cork in his teeth, he gave a tremendous wrench; when the champagne spurted he checked it dextrously with his thumb. "Here," he said, passing it to her, "stab yourself and pass the dagger."

Monica had had only one glass of champagne at the party, and Revelstoke, who never drank much, had taken little more. They were both glad of a refreshing pull at the champagne, but did not want more than a gulp or two. He was still in high spirits, which he could support on excitement alone; he had enjoyed the party, springing as it did from his personal success; the only annoyance he felt was with Persis, who had vanished with Odingsels. Monica was too much elated at having him in her living-room, almost to herself, to want other stimulant. But Eccles was a hardened and persistent drinker. When his turn at the bottle came he did not take it from his lips until it was empty. Then -- "I want a bath," said he; "humping the old trout upstairs has brought me out in a lather." He rose, belched cavernously, waved a casual farewell and went. They heard him go down the stairs; the bathroom door was slammed and its noisy bolt pressed home; water ran, and the whole house hummed with the rumble of pipes.

"I hope he doesn't come to any harm," said Monica.

"Not Bun," said Revelstoke, "but he may have a doze in the tub."

What now? Girls in books and plays always seemed to know what to do when left alone with the men they loved; Monica hadn't an idea in her head.

"Would you like something to eat?" she said.

He wanted nothing to eat.

Silence that went on for minutes.

"It was wonderful of you and Sir Benedict to rescue me. I was afraid Mrs Merry was going to throw us out."

"Would have served them right. They have no manners."

"It would have been a shame, though, just as you came. We wanted to celebrate the broadcast."

"You saw how they celebrated."

"They all said you were a genius."

"I wish I had their certainty."

"I thought it was magnificent."

"Did you really?"

"Of course I don't know much about it. You know that. But if you won't laugh, I'd like to say that I think you have an extraordinary melodic gift."

"Oh? How do you mean?"

"Well, of course you know that I'm no judge of modern music, or any music, really, but I think I have a feeling for it, and it seems to me that so many modern composers write for the voice without having any real understanding of it, or love for it. And all the vocal part of Discoverie seemed to me to be so wonderfully singable. The idiom was modern, of course, but the feeling was -- you know, the feeling you get with Handel, the feeling that you are in expert hands. The singers could settle into their parts, without having to be getting ready all the time for the next bit of acrobatics. A certainty of touch, I suppose you would call it."

"That's very shrewd of you. The others don't really know anything about music, and what they say doesn't matter. Odingsels knows a good deal, but he's terribly jealous of anyone who makes a mark, you know. That's why he's pinched Persis for tonight; wants to take me down a peg."

Monica had heard all her life that Opportunity knocks but once. But when Opportunity knocks, the sound can bring your heart into your mouth. No use dithering. She plunged.

"Do you think she'd have behaved like that if she really loved you?"

"I've never thought for an instant that she loved me."

Opportunity had a foot in the door and was thundering on the knocker. Now was the moment. She felt awkward and plain; her head was light and seemed to be thumping. But, beneath these discomforts, she was elated. She was alive as never before.

"If I had Persis' chance to show that I loved you I could do things for you that she can't. You're a genius. I know it and she doesn't. I care about it and she doesn't. I'm ignorant and silly, and I made a fool of myself at your mother's house at Christmas, boasting and pretending. You must have despised me. But I wanted to impress you. I suppose I ought to have known better, but I didn't. And you had shown that you had some feeling for me. And there it is."

As she finished this speech, sitting bolt upright on the uncomfortable day-bed, looking at the carpet, Monica's mind was almost entirely filled with a sense of having taken an irrevocable step, of having gone beyond the bounds of modesty which had been established for her in twenty-two years, of having burned her bridges: but there was room also for a sense of wonder, and indeed of admiration, for herself, and a pleased recognition that she had spoken plainly and well. She was ashamed of these latter sensations, and tried to banish them, but they would not go. Very far at the back of her mind a triumphant Monica was exulting, I've done it, I've done it, I've brought it to the point!

Revelstoke looked at her for a time, smiling, and twisting the ring which he wore on his left hand. He looked as he had looked when first she saw him, when he interrupted her playing of Danse Macabre.

"If you love me, prove it," said he.

He means going to bed with him, she thought. Well, I knew that. I'm ready.

"I know that sounds hatefully egotistical," he went on, "but I have always wondered what people meant when they talked about love. My mother has always told me that she loves me, but it's astonishing how little she will do to show it; the love between us always seems to mean great concessions on my part, and very little ones on hers. And there have been girls -- quite a few girls -- who were sure they loved me, and whom I thought I loved, but it never seemed to go beyond what was pleasant and flattering to themselves. Once they had me, as they thought, under their thumb, they wanted great changes in me. I do not propose to change to anybody's pattern. That is the charm of Persis; she doesn't expect changes in me, and she certainly doesn't mean to make any in herself. She knows that I am no Darby, and certainly she is no Joan. Now, I have a suspicion -- and I know it is caddish of me to mention it at such a tender moment as this -- that you want to reform me, and make me better. Am I right?"

"No."

"Don't you want to make a quiet haven for me, in which I shall write immortal music, while you keep bad influences from the door, and do wonders with our tiny income?"

"No. You must do whatever seems best to you."

"You have no notions about marriage?"

"I hadn't thought about it."

"Swear?"

"I swear."

"Then let me tell you a thing or two. Our meeting at Neuadd Goch was a shock to me, and when I thought you had planned it, I hated you and determined to do you a very bad turn for it. But when I found out from my mother that it was all quite unplanned, I was delighted to find you there, and our encounter in the bathroom was proof of it. You were silly, bragging about your family; I don't know anything about them, but every word you said was palpably false. And what were you trying to do? You wanted to impress my family. Why? Did you think them so marvellous that you couldn't live without their admiration?"

"They were kind to me; I don't know any other people like that. I wanted to be a little bit like them, I suppose."

"You think you are devoted heart and soul to music, but you will waste so much effort and stoop so far to impress the first examples of our declining county gentry you meet? Well, never mind. Now listen: I don't love you. Is that understood? But if ever I do love you, I'll tell you. I'll be absolutely honest with you. But because I fall short of loving you, that doesn't mean that I don't want you, and that I am not sometimes extremely fond of you. Meanwhile, you think you love me. Shall we act on that assumption?"

He led her into the bedroom, and there the atmosphere which had so enraptured Monica at Neuadd Goch was created again. Giles would not say that he loved her, but that was only a form of words; could he treat her so if he did not? She would not believe it.

He undressed her, and an incident occurred which she was to remember always. She stood in her slip, shy and unaccustomed, and as he began to remove his own clothes, she turned to get into the bed. But he caught her by the arm, and, removing the slip, stepped backward and looked long at her nakedness.

"You must get used to being looked at," said he. "It is beautifying to be seen naked by those we love, and the body grows ugly if it is always huddled under clothes. Nakedness is always honesty, and sometimes it is beauty: but even the finest clothes have a hint of vulgarity. Never make love with your clothes on; only very common people -- really common people -- do it."

It was a long night of love, and when at last Revelstoke slept, Monica lay beside him feeling triumphant and re-born. He was hers. Though he had spoken coldly to her, and bargained, and said flatly that he did not love her, she was confident. She would win him at last. He should be brought to say it. He would love her, and tell her so.

[THREE].

What the critics said was a matter of concern to all of the menagerie, and it was during the week that their opinions appeared, and were chewed over at Thirty-two Tite Street, that Monica's new relationship with Giles became apparent to the inner circle of Lantern.

It was Persis who was first to learn of it. The day after the party in Dean's Yard she strolled round to Tite Street at about four o'clock in the afternoon, expecting a brief quarrel and a reconciliation. But when she climbed the stair to Giles' apartment she found the outer door closed.

This was something unknown to her. Giles never closed that door except as a signal that he was working, and was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Since she had known him, he had never closed it except when she was in the flat, and very rarely then. She could not conceive that it was meant to exclude her, so she tried the handle. The door was locked. This certainly did not mean that Giles was from home, for he seldom troubled to lock his flat. She knocked, peremptorily. There was a stirring inside, so she gave the door a hearty kick. It opened, and Monica appeared in the crack, dressed in slacks and with a scarf tied around her head; in her hand was a mop.

"Shhh!" said Monica laying a finger to her smiling lips.

"What d'you mean, 'Shh!' "

"I mean Giles is sleeping, and you'll disturb him."

"Sleeping! And what are you doing, may I ask?"

"Cleaning the kitchen," said Monica; "somebody's left it in an awful mess. If you like to come back later this evening, I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you."

The door closed. If Persis had been the swooning kind, she would have swooned with rage. As it was, she gave the door a few more kicks, and stamped down the stairs.

The encounter gave a new dimension to Monica's happiness. She had driven Giles from Courtfield Gardens that morning before seven o'clock, for she did not want him to be found there by Mrs Merry, and she had no idea how long the landlady would sleep. Shortly after the shops opened she had followed him to Tite Street in a taxi, bearing with her brooms, soaps and cleansers, as well as the necessaries for a splendid breakfast. She served him his food on a tray, kissed him, and told him to go back to sleep, as she meant to be busy for several hours. He was too astonished to resist.

"My God, I have fallen into the hands of a Good Woman," he said, as she left the room, but she merely smiled as she closed his door.

Then began such a ridding-out as the flat had never known since Giles had lived there. All Ma Gall's hatred of slopdolly housekeeping, transfigured by love, was unleashed in Monica; she shook things, beat them, scrubbed and scoured them, rubbed, polished and dusted them; wearing rubber gloves, and using lye and a knife, she scraped the rancid and inveterate grease out of the stove; she washed every dish; she got rid of a large, reeking jam-pail, which had been the flat's principal ash-tray for some months and had never been emptied. She washed Pyewacket's dish, to the cat's astonishment and displeasure. She raised an extraordinary dust, and worked miracles. When she was finished, after six hours' toil, the flat was only moderately dirty -- which was cleaner than it had been since she had known it. It smelled better. It looked better. But except for the dirt, nothing in it was altered.

Monica was too wise to move things about, or attempt to impose order on Giles' chaos. She was content to clean up the chaos, but not to alter it. Music and books still heaped the top of the piano, but they no longer blackened the hands. The large trestle table which was covered with Lantern papers was still heaped high, but the heaps were neater around the edges. The bathroom was gleaming, and some underthings of Persis', which customarily hung on a piece of twine from corner to corner, had been removed, and were awaiting removal in a bag in the kitchen. And the kitchen -- its stench no longer caught at the throat, the dirty linoleum and the foul grey mess beneath it had been removed from the drying board; two tins of cleanser had gone into the waste-pipe so that when it belched (as it did whenever water went down it) it belched a harsh, carbolic smell, and not a breath from the charnel-house. All the things for which Giles cared nothing had been cleaned and put straight; all things for which he cared had been cleaned and left in familiar disorder.

And to cap it all, Persis had come and been repulsed. Monica was happy as any bride in her dream house. She drew a bath in the clean bathroom, lay down in it, and sang a few snatches recollected from The Discoverie of Witchcraft.

"I have been gathering Wolves' hairs The mad Dog's foam, and the Adder's ears; The spurgings of a dead man's Eyes, And all since the Evening Star did rise."

It was not ideal as an outpouring of the joy of love (though it was not without some reference to her house-cleaning work) and she did not sing it in the hope of catching Giles' ear. It was a simple burst of delight. But Giles put his head around the door.

"Didn't know you could sing any of that," said he.

Remembering his words of the night before, she did not make a show of concealment, but lay still in the water.

"I can sing all the soprano part. Do you want tea? I'll be out in a minute."

She could not bring herself to use the unpleasant towel, nor yet the shower curtain, so she had to dry herself on her head-scarf and her handkerchief, and remain damp where these would not suffice. She did not care. She sang as she mopped, patted and fanned herself dry:

"A Murderer, yonder, was hung in Chains, The Sun and the Wind had shrunk his Veins; I bit off a Sinew; I clipp'd his Hair, I brought off his Rags, that danc'd i' th' Air."

"You've been busy," said Giles, when she took tea into the workroom.

Monica made no reply. She had made several resolutions as she worked, and one of them was that she would never draw attention to anything she did for him, or seem to seek praise. Patient Griselda was only one of the parts she meant to play in the life of Giles Revelstoke and it was certainly not the principal one. Nor did she mean to camp in that flat. So when she had fed him the sort of tea he liked -- large chunks of thickly buttered bread smeared with jam, strong tea and soggy plumcake -- she said that she would have to go, as she had work to do for Molloy.

"There'll probably be people looking in during the evening," said she. "Shall I get the papers and see if there is anything about the broadcast? Persis was here earlier, and I gathered that she will be back again."

"Very likely," said Giles. But as soon as she had gone, he burst into loud laughter. He was thinking of Persis.

[FOUR].

When Monica returned at nine o'clock, the menagerie was assembled, and it was characteristic of them that they all said they wanted to see the papers, but none of them had bought any. When she appeared with all the principal ones, fresh and clean, they fell upon them eagerly, and rumpled them, and read pieces aloud derisively, to show how superior they were to the events of the day. But of the lot, only two papers had brief references to the broadcast.

By the following Sunday, when all the papers which might be expected to say anything about The Discoverie had made their appearance, there was a creditable total of seven notices. They ranged from two brief, cautious comments on the quality of performance through four others, which were complimentary in a pleasant but unimportant fashion about the work itself, assuring the public that Giles was "promising" and "original" and that his score was "musicianly". But the longest, and most impressive, in the most influential of the Sunday journals, was the one by Stanhope Aspinwall.

It would have delighted most composers. It treated The Discoverie of Witchcraft seriously, complimented Giles on the fine sense of form which it revealed, praised the splendid melodic gift which Domdaniel had mentioned, and also called attention to the inferiority of the purely instrumental passages, though it said that they were interestingly laid out for the small group of instruments used. But it was the two final paragraphs which made Giles angry. They read:

"In spite of the high quality of the work as a whole, and the brilliance of many pages, the hearer who hopes for great things from Mr Revelstoke may be disturbed by a quality in The Discoverie of Witchcraft which can only be called 'literary'. The choice of theme is strongly romantic, and none the worse for that -- but it is a literary form of romance. The portions of the text which are not by Ben Jonson are drawn from two seventeenth-century books on witchcraft which have no particular grace of style but which have, from time to time, roused the enthusiasm of amateurs of literary curiosa. Even the skill of the musical treatment of this matter cannot persuade us to take the theme -- witchcraft -- seriously. In another composer this would cause no concern; we should be sure that he would grow out of it. But Mr Revelstoke is known -- indeed, principally known, at present -- to the musical world as a musical journalist. Though musical gifts and literary skill have often gone hand in hand there comes a time when one or the other must take the lead. Mr Revelstoke will forgive me if I point out that, as Schumann, Berlioz and Debussy in their time had to give up their avocation as writers to embrace their fate as composers, that time has also come to him. In brief, he must give up what he does well and devote himself to what he does best.

"What he does best is to match fine poetry with eloquent, graceful and seemingly inevitable melody. The cantata form of the composition under review is commandingly used, and it is this sense of drama, even more than the lyric passages, which make Discoverie an important new work; there is a foreshadowing here of that rare creature, a real composer of opera. But Mr Revelstoke must find his way toward opera not through his present literary enthusiasms, but by clearing the literary rubbish from the springs of his musical inspiration."

"But it's a rave, old man," said Bun Eccles when he had read it. "You said he'd given you a rocket, but it's a rave! He says you're marvellous, and all you've got to do to be twice as marvellous is to get down to work. Cor stone the bleedin' rooks, you don't know what a bad notice is! Why, I've seen chaps -- painters -- really chewed up in the papers; told to go and find some honest, obscure work, and trouble the world no more -- that kind of thing. I don't understand what's eating you."

"I will not be school-mastered, and lectured, and ticked off by Mr Bloody Aspinwall," said Revelstoke. "I will not be told to stop writing criticism of critics by a critic. I will not be known-best-about by a man who knows nothing of me except what he reads in Lantern."

"He just wants to shut you up," said Persis. "You've probably exposed him so often as an incompetent that he's taken this way of revenging himself. You're dead right, Giles; you'd be a fool to pay any attention."