When she got home she was surprised to find the blue Cord outside. Inside, the house was dark, but she could see a flicker of light from the den,' and there she found Monty and Veda, in the dark except for the fire they had lit for themselves, and evidently getting on famously. To Mildred, Monty explained: "We had a date."

"Oh, you did."

"Yes, we made a date that I was to take her home, so I did. Of course we had to take Pop home first—"

"Or at least, to the B—"

But before Veda could finish her languid qualification, she and Monty burst into howls of laughter, and when she could get her breath she gasped: "Oh Mother! We saw the Biederhof! Through the window! And—they flopped!"

Mildred felt she ought to be shocked, but the next thing she knew she had joined in, and then the three of them laughed until their stomachs ached and tears ran down their faces, as though Mrs. Biederhof and her untrammelled bosom were the funniest things in the world. It was a long time before Mildred could bring herself to send Veda to bed. She wanted to keep her there, to warm herself in this sunny, carefree friendliness that had never been there before. When the time finally came, she took Veda in herself, and helped her undress, and put her in bed, and held her tight for a moment, still ecstatic at the miracle that had come to pa.s.s. Then Veda whispered: "Oh Mother, isn't he just wonderful! wonderful!"

"He's terribly nice."

"How did you meet him?"

Mildred mumbled something about Monty's having come into the Hollywood restaurant once or twice, then asked: "And how did you you meet him?" meet him?"

"Oh Mother, I didn't! I mean, I didn't say anything to him. He He spoke to spoke to me me. He said I looked so much like you he knew who I was. Did you tell him about me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then he asked for Ray, and when I told him about her, he turned perfectly pale, and jumped up, and—"

"Yes, I know."

"And Mother, those orchids!"

"You want them?"

"Mother! Mother!"

"All right, you can wear them to school."

From the sofa came a voice, a little thick, a little unsteady: "I've been looking at that d.a.m.ned costume all night, and with great difficulty restrained myself from biting it. Now, get it off."

"Oh, I'm not much in the humor for—"

"Get it off."

So the costume came off, and she submitted to what, on the whole, seemed a reasonably appropriate finale to the evening. Yet she was too excited really to have her mind on Monty. When she went to bed she was tired, happy, and weepy, and Bert, Wally, Mrs. Gessler, Ida, Monty, the sign, the restaurant, and the $46 were all swimming about in a moonlit pooi of tears. But the face that shimmered above it, more beautiful than all the rest, was Veda's.

CHAPTER X.

ONE MORNING, some months after this, she was driving down from Arrowhead with Monty. He was part of her life now, though on the whole not quite so satisfactory a part as it had seemed, in that first week or two, that he might be. For one thing, she had discovered that a large part of his appeal for her was physical, and this she found disturbing. So far, her s.e.x experiences had been limited, and of a routine, tepid sort, even in the early days with Bert. This hot, wanton excitement that Monty aroused in her seemed somehow shameful; also, she was afraid it might really take possession of her, and interfere with her work, which was becoming her life. For in spite of mishaps, blunders, and catastrophes that sometimes reduced her to bitter tears, the little restaurant continued to prosper. Whether she had any real business ability it would be hard to say, but her common sense, plus an industry that never seemed to flag, did well enough. She early saw that the wholesale pie business was the key to everything else, and doggedly kept at the job of building it up, until it was paying all expenses, even above the wages of Hans, the baker that she hired. The restaurant intake had been left as clear profit, or what would become profit as soon as her debts, somewhat appalling still, were paid. That Monty might throw her out of step with this precious career was a possibility that distinctly frightened her.

And for another thing, she felt increasingly the sense of inferiority that he had aroused in her, that first night at the lake. Somehow, by his easy flippancy, he made her accomplishments seem small, of no consequence. The restaurant, which to her was a sort of Holy Grail, attained by fabulous effort and sacrifice, to him was the Pie Wagon, a term quickly taken up by Veda, who blandly shortened it to The Wagon. And even though he sometimes brought his friends there, and introduced them, and asked her to sit down, she noticed they were- always men. She never met any of his women friends, and never met his family. Once, unexpectedly, he had pointed the car at Pasadena, and said he wanted her to see his home. She was nervous at the idea of meeting his mother, but when they got there it turned out that both mother and sister were away, with the servants off for the night. At once she hated the big stuffy mansion, hated the feeling she had been smuggled in the back door, almost hated him. There was no s.e.x that night, and he professed to be puzzled, as well as hurt, by her conduct. She had a growing suspicion that to him she was a servant girl, an amusing servant girl, one with pretty legs and a flattering response in bed, but a servant girl just the same.

Yet she never declined his invitations, never put on' the brake that her instinct was demanding, never raised the hatchet that she knew one day would have to fall. For there was always this delicious thing that he had brought into her life, this intimacy with Veda that had come when he came, that would go, she was afraid, when he went. Monty seemed devoted to Veda. He took her everywhere, to polo, to horse shows, to his mother's, granting her all the social equality that he withheld from Mildred, so that the child lived in a horsy, streamlined heaven. Mildred lived in a heaven too, a heaven of more modest design, one slightly spoiled by wounded pride, but one that held the music of harps. She laved herself in Veda's sticky affection, and bought, without complaining, the somewhat expensive gear that heaven required: riding, swimming, golf, and tennis outfits; overnight kits, monogrammed. If Mildred knew n.o.body in Pasadena, she had the consolation that Veda knew everybody, and had her picture on the society pages so often that she became quite blase about it. And so long as this went on, Mildred knew she would put up with Monty, with his irritating point of view, his amused condescension, his omissions that cut her so badly—and not only put up with him, but cling to him.

This particular morning, however, she was in pleasant humor. She had slept well, after a romantic night; it was early fall again, with the mountain trees turning yellow, and she was pontificating amiably about Mr. Roosevelt. She pontificated a great deal now, particularly about politics. She hadn't been in business very long before she became furiously aware of taxes, and this led quite naturally to politics and Mr. Roosevelt. She was going to vote for him, she said, because he was going to put an end to all this Hoover extravagance and balance the budget. Why the very idea, she said, of all those worthless people demanding help, and this Hoover even considering doing anything for them. There was nothing the matter with them except they were too lazy to work, and you couldn't tell her that anybody couldn't get along, even if there was a Depression, if they only had a little gump. In this, Monty may have detected a smug note, an allusion to what she she had done with a little gump. At any rate, he listened with half an ear, and then asked abruptly: "Can I tell you something?" had done with a little gump. At any rate, he listened with half an ear, and then asked abruptly: "Can I tell you something?"

"If it's pro-Hoover I don't want to hear it."

"It's about Veda."

"What's she up to now?"

"Music. . . . Well what the h.e.l.l, it's not up to me to give you any advice. All I know is how the kid feels."

"She takes lessons."

"She takes lessons from some cheap little ivory thumper over in Glendale, and she has a squawk. She doesn't think she's getting anywhere. Well—it's none of my affair."

"Go on."

"I think she's got something."

"I always said she had talent."

"Saying she has talent and doing the right thing about it are two different things. If you don't mind my saying so, I think you know more about pies than you do about music. I think she ought to be put under somebody that can really take charge of her."

"Who, for instance?"

"Well, there's a fellow in Pasadena that could do wonders with her. You may have heard of him—Charlie HanDen, quite well-known, up to a few years ago, in the concert field. Then his lungs cracked up and he came out here. Doesn't do much now. Organist, choir master, whatever you call it, at our church, leads a quiet life, but takes a few pupils. I'm sure I can get him interested in her. If he takes her on, she'll be getting somewhere."

"When did you you learn so much about music?" learn so much about music?"

"I don't know a thing about it. But my mother does. She's been a patroness of the Philharmonic for years and she knows all about it. She says the kid s really got it."

"Of course I never met your mother."

This slightly waspish remark Monty let pa.s.s without answering, and it was some minutes before he went on. "And another thing that makes me think she's got it is the way she works at it. All right, all I know is horses, but when I see a guy on top of one, out there in the morning when there's n.o.body else around, popping away with a mallet to improve his backhand, I think to myself, maybe one day he'll be a polo player."

"Isn't that that something to be." something to be."

"It's the same way with her. So far as I know, she never misses a day on that dry-goods box at her grandfather's, and even when she comes over to Mother's she does her two hours of exercises every morning, before she'll even talk about tennis, or riding, or whatever Mother has in mind for her. She works, and you don't even have to be a musician to figure that out."

In spite of her almost religious conviction that Veda had talent, Mildred wasn't much impressed: she knew Veda too well to read the evidence quite as Monty read it. Veda's earnest practicing at Mrs. Beragon's might mean a consuming pa.s.sion for music, and it might mean a consuming pa.s.sion for letting the whole household know she was around. And Mr. Hannen might have been a celebrated pianist once, but the fact that he was now organist at one of Pasadena's sw.a.n.k churches cast a certain familiar color over his nomination as teacher. All in all, Mildred was sure she detected one of Veda's fine schemes. And in addition to that, she resented what was evidently becoming a small conspiracy to tell her what she should do about her child, and the implication that what she was already doing, by Pasadena standards, wasn't anything like good enough.

So for some time she said nothing about this subject to Veda. But it kept gnawing on her mind, setting up the fear that perhaps she was denying the child something she really ought to have. And then one night Veda broke into a violent denunciation of Miss Whittaker, the lady to whom Mildred had been paying 50c a week to give Veda lessons; but something about the tirade didn't have the usual phony sound to it. Troubled, Mildred asked suddenly if Mr. Hannen, of Pasadena, would be better. This produced such excited dancing around that she knew she was in for it. So she called up, made an engagement, and on the appointed afternoon rushed through her work so she could dash home and take Veda over there.

For the occasion, she laid out some of Veda's new finery: a brown silk dress, brown hat, alligator-skin shoes, and silk stockings. But when Veda got home from school, and saw the pile on the bed, she threw up her hands in horror. "Mother! I can't be dressed up! up! Ooh! It would be so Ooh! It would be so provincial! provincial!" Mildred knew the voice of society when she heard it, so she sighed, put the things away, and watched while Veda tossed out her own idea of suitable garb: maroon sweater, plaid skirt, polo coat, leather beret, woollen socks, and flat-heeled shoes. But she looked away when Veda started to dress. A year and a half had indeed made some changes in Veda's appearance. She was still no more than meditim height, but her haughty carriage made her seem taller. The hips were as slim as ever, but had taken on some touch of voluptuousness. The legs were Mildred's, to the last graceful contour. But the most noticeable change was what Monty brutally called the Dairy: two round, swelling protuberances that had appeared almost overnight on the high, arching chest. They would have been large, even for a woman: for a child of thirteen they were positively startling. Mildred had a mystical feeling about them: they made her think tremulously of Love, Motherhood, and similar milky concepts. When Monty had denounced them as indecent, and told Veda for Christ's sake to get a hammock to sling them in, Mildred had been shocked, and pink-faced, and furious. But Veda had laughed gaily, and got bra.s.sieres in a completely matter-of-fact way. It would have been hard to imagine her pink-faced about anything. What with the chest, the Dairy, and the slightly swaying hips, she moved like some proud, pedigreed pigeon.

Mr. Hannen lived just off the Pasadena traffic circle, in a house that looked usual enough from the outside, but which, inside, turned out to be one gigantic studio, with all the first floor and most of the ,second given over to it. It startled Mildred, not only by its size, but by its incredible bareness. There was nothing in it but a big piano, long shelves of music, a wooden wall seat across one end, and a bronze bust, m one corner, labelled BAUER. Mr. Hannen himself was a' squat man of about forty, with bandy legs, thick chest, and big hands, though a slight stoop, as well as streaky white hair, hinted at the illness that Monty had mentioned. He was quite friendly, and chatted with Mildred until she was off guard, and grew gabby. When she mentioned the restaurant, Veda tossed her head impatiently, but Mr. Hannen said "Ah!" in a flattering way, remembered he had heard of it, copied down the address, and promised to come in. Then, rather casually, he got around to Veda, had a look at the music she had brought, and said they might as well get the horrible part over. Veda looked a little set back on her heels, but he waved her to the piano and told her to play something—anything, so it was short. Veda marched grandly over, sat down on the bench, twisted her hands in a professional way, and meditated. Mr. Hannen sat down on the wall seat, near Mildred, and meditated. Then Veda launched into a piece known to Mildred as Rachmaninoff Prelude.

It was the first time, in recent months, that Mildred had heard Veda play, and she was delighted with the effect. The musical part she wasn't quite sure about, except that it made a fine noisy clatter. But there could be no mistaking the authoritative way in which Veda kept lifting her right hand high in the air, or the style with which she crossed her left hand over it. The piece kept mounting to a rousing noisy climax, and then inexplicably it faltered. Veda struck a petulant chord. "I always want to play it that that way." way."

"I'll tell Mr. Rachmaninoff when I see him."

Mr. Hannen was slightly ironical about it, but his brows knit, and he began eyeing Veda sharply. Veda, a little chastened, finished. He made no comment, but got up, found a piece of music, and put it in front of her. "Let's try the sightreading.

Veda rattled through this piece like a human pianola, while Mr. Hannen alternately screwed up his face as though he were in great pain, and stared hard at her. When silence mercifully stole into the room, he walked over to the shelves again, got out a violin case, set it beside Mildred, opened it, and began to resin the bow. "Let's try the accompanying. What's your name again?"

"Miss Pierce."

"Ah—?"

"Veda."

"Have you ever accompanied, Veda?"

"Just a little."

"Just a little, what?"

"—I beg your pardon?"

"I might warn you, Veda, that with young pupils I mix quite a general instruction, in with the musical. Now if you don't want a clip on the ear, you'll call me sir sir."

"Yes sir."

Mildred wanted to kick up her heels and laugh at a Veda who was suddenly meek and humble. However, she affected not to be listening, and fingered the silk of Mr. Hannen's violin cover as though it was the most interesting piece of sewing she had ever seen. He picked up the violin now, and turned to Veda. "This isn't my instrument, but there must be something something for you to accompany, so it'll have to do. Sound your A." for you to accompany, so it'll have to do. Sound your A."

Veda tapped a note, he tuned the violin, and set a piece of music on the piano. "All right—a little briskly. 'Don't drag it."

Veda looked blankly at the music. "Why—you've given me the violin part."

"—?"

"Sir."

"Ah, so I have."

He looked on the shelves for a moment, then shook his head. "Well, the piano part's around somewhere, but I don't seem to see it at the moment. All right, keep the violin part in front of you and give me a little accompaniment of your own. Let's see—you have four measures before I come in. Count the last one aloud."

"Sir, I wouldn't even know how to—"

"Begin."

After a desperate look at the music, Veda played a long, faltering figure that ended somewhere up in the tinkle notes. Then, thumping a heavy ba.s.s, 'she counted: "One, two, three, four and and—"

Even Mildred could detect that the 'violin was certainly not Mr. Hannen's instrument. But Veda kept up her ba.s.s, and when he stopped, she repeated the long figure, thumped her ba.s.s, counted, and he came in again. This went on for a short time, but little by little, Mildred thought, it was getting smoother. Once, when Mr. Hannen stopped, Veda omitted the long figure. In its place, she repeated the last part of the air he had been playing, so that when he came in again it joined up quite neatly. When they finished, Mr. Hannen put the violin away and resumed staring at Veda. Then: "Where did you study harmony?"

"I never studied harmony, sir."

"H'm."

He walked around a few moments, said "Well" in a reflective way, and began to talk. "The technique is simply G.o.d-awful. You have a tone like a xylophone that fell in love with a hand organ, but that may respond to-whatever we do about it. And the conceit is almost beyond belief. That certainly will respond. It's responded a little already, hasn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"But—play that bit in the Rachmaninoff again, the way you said you always wanted to play it."

Rather weakly, Veda obeyed. He was beside her on the bench now, and dropped his big paw on the keys as he played after her. A tingle went through Mildred at the way it seemed to reach down into the vitals of the piano, and find sounds that were rich, dark, and exciting. She noted that it no longer seemed hairy and thick, but became a thing of infinite grace. He studied the keys a moment, then said: "And suppose you did play it that way. You'd be in a little trouble, don't you think?" He played another chord or two. "Where would you go from there? there?"

Veda played a few more chords, and he carefully played them after her. Then he nodded. "Yes, it could have been written that way. I really think Mr. Rachmaninoff's way is better—I find a slight touch of ba.n.a.lity in yours, don't you?"

"What's ba.n.a.lity, sir?"

"I mean it sounds corny. Cheap. It's got that old Poet and Peasant smell to it. Play it an octave higher and put a couple of trills in it, it would be Listen to the Mocking Bird Listen to the Mocking Bird almost before you knew it." almost before you knew it."

Veda played it an octave higher, twiddled a trill, did a bar of Listen to the Mocking Bird Listen to the Mocking Bird, and got very red. "Yes sir, I guess you're right."

"But—it makes musical sense sense."

This seemed so incredible to him that he sat in silence for some little time before he went on: "I got plenty of pupils with talent in their fingers, very few with anything in their heads. Your fingers, Veda, I'm not so sure about. There's something about the way you do it that isn't exactly—but never mind about that. We'll see what can be done. But your head—that's different. Your sight-reading is remarkable, the sure sign of a musician. And that trick I played on you, making you improvise an accompaniment to the little gavotte—of course, you didn't really do it well, but the amazing thing was that you could do it all. I don't know what made me think you could, unless it was that idiotic monkeyshine you pulled in the Rachmaninoff. So-"

He turned now to Mildred. "I want her over here twice a week. I'm giving her one lesson in piano-my rate is ten dollars an hour, the lesson is a half hour, so it'll cost you live dollars. I'm giving her another lesson in the theory of music, and that lesson will be free. I can't be sure what will come of it, and it isn't fair to make you pay for my experiments. But, she'll learn something something, and at the very least get some of the conceit knocked out of her."

So saying, he took a good healthy wallop at Veda's ribs. Then he added: "I suppose nothing will come of it, if we're really honest about it. Many are called, in this business, but few are chosen, and hardly any find out how good you have to be before you're any good at all. But—we'll see. . . . G.o.d, Veda, but your playing stinks. I ought to charge a hundred dollars an hour, just to listen to you."

Veda started to cry, as Mildred stared in astonishment. Not three times in her life had she seen this cold child cry, and yet there she was, with two streams squirting out of her eyes and cascading down on the maroon sweater, where they made glistening silver drops. Mr. Hannen airily waved his hand. "Let her bawl. It's nothing to what she'll be doing before I get through with her."

So Veda bawled, and she was still bawling when they got in the car and started home. Mildred kept patting her hand, and gave up all thought of a little light twitting on the subject of "Sir." Then, in explosive jerks, Veda started to talk. "Oh Mother—I was so afraid—he wouldn't take me. And then—he wanted wanted me. He said I had something—in my head. Mother—in my me. He said I had something—in my head. Mother—in my head! head!"

Then Mildred knew that an awakening had taken place in Veda, that it wasn't in the least phony, and that what had awakened was precisely what she herself had mutely believed in all these years. It was as though the Star of Bethlehem had suddenly appeared in front of her.

So Monty was vindicated, but when Mildred snuggled up to him one night in the den, and wanted to talk about it, the result left a great deal to be desired. He lit a cigarette and rehea.r.s.ed his reasons for thinking Veda "had it"; they were excellent reasons, all in praise of Veda, but somehow they didn't hit the spot. When she tried to break through his habit of treating everything with offhand impersonality, saying wasn't it wonderful, and how did he he ever think up something like that,, he seemed uncomfortable at her kittenishness, and rather curtly brushed her off. To h.e.l.l with it, he said. He had done nothing that anybody couldn't have done that knew the child, so why give him any credit? Then, as though bored with the whole subject, he began stripping off her stockings. ever think up something like that,, he seemed uncomfortable at her kittenishness, and rather curtly brushed her off. To h.e.l.l with it, he said. He had done nothing that anybody couldn't have done that knew the child, so why give him any credit? Then, as though bored with the whole subject, he began stripping off her stockings.

But there was a great hunger in Mildred's heart: she had to share share this miracle with somebody, and when she had stood it as long as she could she sent for Bert. He came the next afternoon, to the restaurant, when the place was deserted and she had him to herself. She had Arline serve lunch and told him about it. He had already heard a little, from Mom, who had got a brief version from Veda, but now he got it all, in complete detail. Mildred told about the studio, the Rachmaninoff prelude, the sight-reading, the accompaniment to the violin selection. He listened gravely, except for the laugh he let out over the "Sir" episode. When Mildred had finished he thought a long time. Then, solemnly, he announced: "She's some kid. She's some kid." this miracle with somebody, and when she had stood it as long as she could she sent for Bert. He came the next afternoon, to the restaurant, when the place was deserted and she had him to herself. She had Arline serve lunch and told him about it. He had already heard a little, from Mom, who had got a brief version from Veda, but now he got it all, in complete detail. Mildred told about the studio, the Rachmaninoff prelude, the sight-reading, the accompaniment to the violin selection. He listened gravely, except for the laugh he let out over the "Sir" episode. When Mildred had finished he thought a long time. Then, solemnly, he announced: "She's some kid. She's some kid."

Mildred sighed happily. This was the kind of talk she wanted, 'at last. He went on, then, flatteringly reminding her that she had always said Veda was "artistic," gallantly conceding that he himself had had his doubts. Not that he didn't appreciate Veda, he added hastily, h.e.l.l no. It was only that he didn't know of any music on Mildred's side or his, and he always understood this kind of thing ran in families. Well, it just went to show how any of us can be wrong, and G.o.ddam it, he was glad it had turned out this way. G.o.ddam G.o.ddam it he was. Then, having polished off the past, he looked at the future. The fingers, he a.s.sured Mildred, were nothing to worry about. Because suppose she didn't become a great pianist? From all he had heard, that market was shot anyhow. But if it was like this guy said, and she had talent in her head, and began to it he was. Then, having polished off the past, he looked at the future. The fingers, he a.s.sured Mildred, were nothing to worry about. Because suppose she didn't become a great pianist? From all he had heard, that market was shot anyhow. But if it was like this guy said, and she had talent in her head, and began to write write music, that was where the real dough was, and it didn't make a bit of difference whether you could play the piano or not. Because, he said dramatically, look at Irving Berlin. He had it straight that the guy couldn't play a note, but with a million bucks in the bank and more coming in every day, music, that was where the real dough was, and it didn't make a bit of difference whether you could play the piano or not. Because, he said dramatically, look at Irving Berlin. He had it straight that the guy couldn't play a note, but with a million bucks in the bank and more coming in every day, he he should worry whether he could tickle the keys or not. Oh no, Mildred needn't worry about Veda now. The way it looked to should worry whether he could tickle the keys or not. Oh no, Mildred needn't worry about Veda now. The way it looked to him him, the kid was all set, and before very long she'd be pulling off something big.

Having Veda turn into Irving Berlin, with or without a million bucks in the bank, wasn't exactly what Mildred had in mind for her. In her imagination she could see Veda already, wearing a pale green dress to set off her coppery hair, seated at a big piano before a thousand people, grandly crossing her right hand over her left, haughtily bowing to thunderous applause—but no matter. The spirit was what counted. Bert spun her dreams for her, while she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and Arline poured him more coffee, from a percolator, the way he liked it. It was the middle of the afternoon before Mildred returned to earth, and said suddenly: "Bert, can I ask a favor?"

"Anything, Mildred."