"That's it! Instead of—"

"What this needs is a private detective."

A hot, savage thrill shot through Mildred. At last she knew they were getting somewhere. Excitedly they talked about it, and then Bert told her to get him to a drugstore, or any place where he could get to a phone book. She stopped in San Fernando, and Bert hopped out before the car stopped rolling. He was back in a minute or two, a slip of paper in his hands. "Here's three, with phone numbers and addresses. I'd say let's go first to this Simons agency. I've heard of it, for one thing, and it's right there in Hollywood, not too far away."

The Simons Detective Agency was located in a small, one-story office on Vine Street, and Mr. Simons turned out to be a friendly little man with bushy black hair. He listened attentively as Bert stated the problem, and refrained from asking embarra.s.sing questions. Then he tilted back in his chair and said he saw no particular difficulty. He got jobs of this sort all the time, and on most of them was able to show results. However, since time seemed to be of the essence, there would be certain expenses, and he would have to ask for an advance. "I'd have to have two fifty before I can start at all. First, to get the young man's picture and other information I'll need, I'll have to put an operative to work, and he'll cost me ten dollars a day. Then I'll have to offer a reward, and—"

"Reward?"

Mildred suddenly had visions of a horrible picture tacked up in postoffices. "Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Pierce." Mr. Sunons seemed to divine her fear. "This is all strictly confidential, and n.o.body'll know anything. Just the same, we work through our connections, and they're not in business for their health. I'd say, on this, a $50 reward should be ample. Then there's the printing of our ifiers, and the pay of a girl to address a couple thousand envelopes and. .

Bert suggested that half the advance should be paid now, the other half when the boy was found, but Mr. Simons shook his head. "This is all money I'll have to pay out before I can start at alL Mind, I haven't said anything yet about my services. Of course, other places may do it cheaper, and you're perfectly welcome to go where you please. But, as I always say, the cheaper the slower in this business—and, the riskier."

Mildred wrote the check. On the way home, both of them applauded themselves handsomely for what they had done, and agreed it should be between themselves, with nothing said to Wally or Veda until they had something to "lay on the line," as Bert put it. So for several days Mildred was ducking into phone booths and talking in guarded tones to Mr. Simons. Then one afternoon he told her to come in. She picked up Bert, and together they drove to the little frame office. Mr. Simons was all smiles. "We had a little luck. Of course it wasn't really luck. In this business, you can't be too thorough. We found out that when he left town, the young man was driving one of his stepfather's cars, and just because I was able to put that information on the flier, now we've got something. Here's the itemized bill, and if you'll just let me have the check while the girl is typing out the address for you...,, Mildred wrote a check for $125, mainly for "services." Mr. Simons put a card in her hand, with an address on it. "That's a dude ranch near Winslow, Ariz. The young man is using his right name, and I don't think you'll have any trouble locating him."

Driving back, they stared at one of Mr. Simon's fliers, bearing the weak, handsome face of the boy they had chosen for a son-in-law. Then, nervously, they discussed what was to be done, and came to the conclusion, in Bert's phrase, that they had to "go through with it." When Mildred dropped him off, they agreed that the time had come to get action out of Wally, and rather grimly Mildred drove home. Going to the kitchen, she sent Letty on another protracted errand. Then, when the girl had gone, she hurried into the den and called Wally. Shrilly, she told what she had done, and read him the address furnished by Mr. Simons. He said hey wait a minute, till he got a pencil. Then he made her repeat the address slowly, and then said: "Swell. Say, that's a help. It's a good thing to have, just in case."

"What do you mean, in case?"

"In case they get tough."

"Aren't you calling the sheriff's office?"

"No use going off half-c.o.c.ked. We've got them right where we want them, and as I said before, our play is to make them come to us. Just let it ride, and—"

"Wally, I want that boy arrested."

"Mildred, why don't you let me—"

Mildred slammed up the receiver and jumped up, her eyes blazing, her hat slightly askew. When she turned to dash out, Veda was at the door. At once she launched into a denunciation of Wally. "That man's not even trying to do anything. I've told him where that boy is. I had a detective find out—and still he does nothing. Well that's the last he'll hear from me! I'm going over to the sheriff's office myself!"

Quivering with her high, virtuous resolve, Mildred charged for the door. She collided with Veda, who seemed to have moved to block her path. Then her wrist was caught in a grip like steel, and slowly, mercilessly, she was forced back, until she plunged down on the sofa. "You'll do nothing of the kind."

"Let go of me! What are you pushing me for? What do you mean I'll do nothing of the kind?"

"If you go to the sheriff's office, they'll bring young Mr. Forrester back. And if they bring him back, he'll want to marry me, and that doesn't happen to suit me. It may interest you to know that he's been back. He sneaked into town, twice, and a beautiful time I had of it, getting him to be a nice boy and stay where Mamma put him. He's quite crazy about me. I saw to that. But as for matrimony, I beg to be excused. I'd much rather have the money."

Mildred took off her hat, and stared at the cold, beautiful creature who had sat down opposite her, and who was now yawning as though the whole subject were a bit of a bore. The events of the last few days began ticking themselves off in her mind, particularly the strange relationship that had sprung up, between Veda and Wally. The squint appeared, and her face grew hard. "Now I know what that woman meant by blackmail. You're just trying to shake her down, shake the whole family down, for money. You're not pregnant, at all."

"Mother, at this stage it's a matter of opinion, and in my opinion, I am."

Veda's eyes glinted as she spoke, and Mildred wanted to back down, to avoid one of those scenes from which she always emerged beaten, humiliated, and hurt. But something was swelling 'within her, something that began in the sick jealousy of a few nights before, something that felt as though it might presently choke her. Her voice shook as she spoke. "How could you do such a thing? If you had loved the boy, I wouldn't have a word to say. So long as I thought you had loved him, I didn't have a word to say, not one word to blame you. To love is a woman's right, and when you do, I hope hope you give everything you have, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over. But just to pretend you loved him, to lead him on, to get money out of him— you give everything you have, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over. But just to pretend you loved him, to lead him on, to get money out of him—how could you do it?" could you do it?"

"Merely following in my mother's footsteps."

"What did you say?"

"Oh, stop being so tiresome. There's the date of your wedding, and there's the date of my birth. Figure it out for yourself. The only difference is that you were a little younger at that time than I am now—a month or two anyway. I suppose it runs in families."

"Why do you think I married your father?"

"I rather imagine he married you. If you mean why you got yourself knocked up, I suppose you did it for the same reason I did—for the money."

"What money?"

"Mother, in another minute I'll be getting annoyed. Of course he has no money now, but at the time he was quite rich, and I'm sure you knew it. When the money was gone you kicked him out. And when you divorced him, and he was so down and out that the Biederhof had to keep him, you quite generously stripped him of the only thing he had left, meaning this lovely, incomparable, palatial hovel that we live in.,, "That was his idea, not mine. He wanted to do his share, to contribute something for you and Ray. And it was all covered with mortgages, that he couldn't even have paid the interest on, let alone—"

"At any rate, you took it."

By now, Mildred had sensed that Veda's boredom was pure affectation. Actually she was enjoying the unhappiness she inificted, and had probably rehea.r.s.ed her main points in advance. This, ordinarily, would have been enough to make Mildred back down, seek a reconciliation, but this feeling within kept goading her. After trying to keep quiet, she lashed out: "But why? Why Why—will you tell me that? Don't I give you everything that money can buy? Is there one single thing I ever denied you? If there was something you wanted, couldn't you have come to me for it, instead of resorting to—blackmail. Because that woman was right! That's all it is! Blackmail! Blackmail! Blackmail! Blackmail!"

In the silence that followed, Mildred felt first frightened, then coldly brave, as the feeling within drove her on. Veda puffed her cigarette, reflected, and asked: "Are you sure you want to know?"

"I dare you to tell me!"

"Well, since you ask, with enough money, I can get away from you, you poor, half-witted mope. From you, and your pie-wagon, and your chickens, and your waffles, 'and your kitchens, and everything that smells of grease. And from this shack, that you blackmailed out of my father with your threats about the Biederhof, and its neat little two-car garage, 'and its lousy furniture. And from Glendale, and its dollar days, and its furniture factories, and its women that wear uniforms and its men that wear smocks. From every rotten, stinking thing that even reminds me of the place—or you."

"I see."

Mildred got up and put on her hat. "Well it's a good thing I found out what you were up to, when I did. Because I can tell you right now, if you had gone through with this, or even tried to go through with it, you'd have been out of here a little sooner than you expected."

She headed for the door, but Veda was there first. Mildred laughed, and tore up the card Mr. Simons had given her. "Oh you needn't worry that I'll go to the sheriff's office now. It'll be a long time before they find out from me where the boy is hiding, or you do either."

Again she started for the door, but Veda didn't move. Mildred backed off and sat down. If Veda thought she would break, she was mistaken. Mildred sat motionless, her face hard, cold, and implacable. After a long time the silence was shattered by the phone. Veda jumped for it. After four or five brief, cryptic monosyllables, she hung up, turned to Mildred with a malicious smile. "That was Wally. You may be interested to know that they're ready to settle."

"Are you?"

"I'm meeting them at his office."

"Then get out. Now."

"I'll decide that. And I'll decide when."

"You'll get your things out of this house right now or you'll find them in the middle of Pierce Drive when you come back."

Veda screamed curses at Mildred, but presently she got it through her head that this time, for some reason, was different from all other times. She went out, backed her car down to the kitchen door, began carrying out her things, and packing them in the luggage carrier. Mildred sat quite still, and when she heard Veda drive off she was consumed by a fury so cold that it almost seemed as though she felt nothing at all. It didn't occur to her that she was acting less like a mother than like a lover who has unexpectedly discovered an 'act of faithlessness, and avenged it.

CHAPTER XIV.

IT WAS AT LEAST SiX months after this that Bert called up to invite her to the broadcast. For her, it had been a dismal six months. She had found out soon enough where Veda was staying. It was in one of the small, sw.a.n.k apartment houses on Franklin Avenue, in Hollywood. Every fibre of her being had wanted to pay a visit there, to take back what she had said, to reestablish things as they had been, or try to. But when this thought entered her mind, or rather shot through her heart like a hot arrow, she set her face as if it had been cast in metal, and not once did she even drive past Veda's door. And yet, even in her loneliness, her relation with Veda was developing, twisting her painfully, like some sort of cancer. She discovered rye, and in the boozy dreams of her daily rest, she pictured Veda as going from bad to worse, as hungering and mending threadbare finery, until she had to come back, penitent and tearful, for forgiveness. This view of the future was somewhat obscured by the circ.u.mstance that Mildred didn't know exactly how much Veda had obtained from the Lenhardts, and thus couldn't calculate, with any degree of accuracy, when dest.i.tution was likely to strike'. But Bert contributed a thought that a.s.sisted drama, if not truth. Bert, having tried unsuccessfully to stand on his rights as a father to bluff information out of Wally, and having threatened even to "hold up the settlement" unless full data were furnished, had learned only that his consent was not needed for a settlement; all the Lenhardts wanted was a release from Veda, a signed letter denying promises, intimidation, or pregnancy. But the episode had left him with a lower opinion of Wally's honesty than he had had before, if that were possible, and he hatched the theory that "Wally would have every d.a.m.ned cent of it before the year was out, didn't make a bit of difference what they paid, or what he got, or what she got." On this theory Mildred eagerly seized, and pictured the cheated Veda, not only as cold, hungry, and in rags, but as horribly bruised in Spirit, creeping to the strong, silent mother who could cope with Wally or anybody else. When the scene materialized almost daily before her eyes, with a hundred little variations and embellishments, she always experienced the same brief ecstasy as she lifted the weeping Veda into her arms, patted her, inhaled the fragrance of the soft, coppery hair, and bestowed love, understanding, and forgiveness. One slight incongruity she overlooked: Veda in real life, rarely wept.

At Bert's mention of a broadcast it took her a moment or two to collect her wits. "What broadcast?"

"Why, Veda."

"You mean she's playing on the air?"

"Singing, the way I get it."

"Veda? Singing? Singing?"

"Maybe I better come over."

By the time he got there, she was a-tremble with excitement. She found the radio page of the Times, and there, sure enough, was Veda's picture, with the news that "the popular singer will be heard tonight at 8:30, on the Hank Somerville (Snack-O-Ham) program." Bert had seen the Examiner, but hadn't seen the Times, and together they looked at the picture, and commented on how lovely Veda looked. When Mildred wanted to know how long this had been going on, meaning the singing, Bert said quickly you couldn't prove it by him, as though to disclaim partic.i.p.ation in secrets that had been withheld from Mildred. Then he added that the way he got it, Veda had been on the air quite a lot already, on the little afternoon programs that n.o.body paid any attention to, and that was how she'd got this chance on a big national hook-up. Mildred got the rye she had been sipping, poured two more drinks, and Bert revealed that his invitation had really been Mrs. Biederhof's idea. "She figured it meant a lot more to you than it would to her, so that's how I came to call you up."

"It was certainly nice of her."

"She's a real friend."

"You mean we'll go to the studio? studio?"

"That's it. It's going out from the NBC studio right here in Hollywood, and we'll be able to see it and hear it."

"Don't we have to have tickets?"

". . . I got a couple."

"How?"

"It's taken care of."

"From Veda?"

"Never mind. I got 'em."

At the look on Mildred's face, Bert quickly crossed over, took her hand. "Now what's the use of acting like that? Yes, she called me up, and the tickets are there waiting for me. And she'll call you up, of course she will. But why would she be calling you in the morning, like she did me? She knows you're never home then. And then another thing, she's probably been busy. I hear they run those singers ragged, rehearsing them, the day of a broadcast. O.K., they've got her there, where she can't get to a phone or anything, but that's not her fault. She'll call. Of course she will."

"Oh no. She won't call me."

As Bert didn't know the full details of Veda's departure from home, his optimism was understandable. He evidently regarded the point as of small importance, for he began to talk amiably, sipping his rye. He said it certainly went to show that the kid had stuff in her all right, to get a spot like that with a big jazz band, and n.o.body giving her any help but herself. He said he knew how Mildred felt, but she was certainly going to Tegret it afterwards if she let a little thing like this stand in the way of being there at the kid's first big chance. Because it was a big chance all right. The torch singers with these big name bands, they're in the money, and no mistake about it. And sometimes, if they had the right hot licks on their first broadcast, they hit the big time overnight.

Mildred let a wan, pitying smile play over her face. If Veda had got there, she said, it was certainly all right with her. Just the same, it certainly seemed funny, the difference between what Veda might have been, and what she was. "Just a year or two ago, it was a pleasure to listen to her. She played all the cla.s.sical composers, the very 'best. Her friends were of the best. They weren't my friends, but they were of the best. Her mind was on higher things. And then, after Mr. Hannen died, I don't know what got into her. She began going around with cheap, awful people. She met that boy. She let Wally Burgan poison her mind against me. And now, Hank Somerville. Well, that's the whole story—from Beethoven to Hank Somerville, in a little over a year. No, I don't want to go to the broadcast. It would make me too sad."

Truth to tell, Mildred had no such critical prejudice against Mr. Somerville, or the torch canon, as her remarks might indicate. If Veda had called her up, she would have been only too glad to regard this as "the first move," and to have gone adoringly to the broadcast. But when Veda called Bert, and didn't call her, she was sick, and her sickness involved a bad case of sour-grapes poisoning: so far as she was concerned, torch was the lowest conceivable form of human endeavor. Also, she hated the idea that Bert might go without her. She insisted that he take Mrs. Biederhof, but he got the point, and miserably mumbled that he guessed he wouldn't go. Then suddenly she asked what advantage there was in going to the studio. He could hear it over the radio. Why not ride with her to Laguna and hear it there? He could have his dinner, a nice big steak if he wanted it, and then later she would have Mrs. Gessler put the radio on the veranda, and he could hear Veda without going to a lot of useless trouble. At the mention of steak, poor Bert perked up, and said he'd often wanted to see her place at Laguna. She said come right along, she'd be starting as soon as Tommy brought the car. He said O.K., and went legging it home to change into clothes suitable to a high-cla.s.s place.

At Laguna, Mildred was indifferent to the impending event, and had little to say to the girls, the cooks, and the customers who kept telling her about Veda's picture in the paper, and asking her if she wasn't excited that her daughter was on the air. Bert, however, wasn't so reticent. While his steak was on the fire, he held court in the bar, and told all and sundry about Veda, and promised that if hot licks were what it took, the kid had them. When the hour drew near, and Mrs. Gessler plugged in the big radio on the veranda, he had an audience of a dozen around him, and extra chairs had to be brought. Two or three were young girls, there were two married couples, and the rest were men. Mildred had intended to pay no attention to the affair at all, but along toward 8.25, curiosity got the better of her. With Mrs. Gessler she went outside, and there was a lively jumping up to give her a seat. One or two men were left perched on the rail.

The first hint she got that Veda's performance might not be quite the torchy affair that Bert had taken for granted came when Mr. Somerville, early in the program, affected to faint, and had to be revived, somewhat noisily, by members of his band. The broadcast had started in the usual way, with the Krazy Kaydets giving the midshipmen's siren yell and then swinging briskly into Anchors Aweigh. Then Mr. Somerville greeted his audience, and then he introduced Veda. When he asked if Veda Pierce was her real name, and she said it was, he wanted to know if her voice was unduly piercing. At this the kaydets rang a ship's gong, and Veda said no, but her scream was, as he'd find out if he made any more such remarks. The studio audience laughed, and the group on the veranda laughed, especially Bert, who slapped his thigh. A man in a blue coat, sitting on the rail, nodded approvingly. "She put that one across all right."

Then Mr. Somerville asked Veda what she was going to sing. She said the Polonaise from Mignon, and that was when he fainted. While the kaydets were working over him, and the studio audience was laughing, and the ship's gong was clanging, Bert leaned to the man in the blue coat. "What's it about?"

"Big operatic aria. The idea is, it's a little over the kaydets' heads."

"Oh, now I get it."

"Don't worry. They'll knock it over."

Mildred, who found the comedy quite disgusting, paid no attention. Then the kaydets crashed into the introduction. Then Veda started to sing. Then a chill, wholly unexpected, shot up Mildred's backbone. The music was unfamiliar to her, and Veda was singing in some foreign language that she didn't understand. But the voice itself was so warm, rich, and vibrant that she began to fight off the effect it had on her. While she was trying to get readjusted to her surprise, Veda came to a little spray of rippling notes and stopped. The man in the blue coat set his drink on a table and said: "Hey, hey, hey! hey!"

After a bar or two by the orchestra, Veda came in again, and another chill shot up Mildred's back. Then, as cold p.r.i.c.kly waves kept sweeping over her, she really began to fight her feelings. Some sense of monstrous injustice oppressed her: it seemed unfair that this girl, instead of being chastened by adversity, was up there, in front of the whole world, singing, and without any help from her. Somehow, all the emotional a.s.sumptions of the last few months were stood on their head, and Mildred felt mean and petty for reacting as she did, and yet she couldn't help it.

Soon Veda stopped, the music changed slightly, and the man in the blue coat sipped his drink. "O.K. so far. Now for the flying trapeze." When Veda started again, Mildred gripped her chair in sheer panic. It seemed impossible that anybody could dare such dizzy heights of sound, could even attempt such vocal gymnastics, without making some slip, some dreadful error that would land the whole thing in ruin. But Veda made no slip. She went on and on, while the man in the blue coat jumped down from the rail, squatted by the machine, and forgot his drink, forgot everything except what was pouring out into the night. Bert and the others watched him with some sort of fascinated expectancy. At the end, when the last, incredibly high note floated over the finale of the orchestra, 'he looked up at Mildred. "Jesus Christ, did you hear it? Did you—"

But Mildred didn't wait for him to finish. She got up abruptly and walked down toward Mrs. Gessler's flowers, waving back Bert and Mrs. Gessler, who called after her, and started to follow. Pushing through the bushes, she reached the bluff overlooking the sea, and stood there, lacing her fingers together, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her lips into a thin, relentless line. This, she needed n.o.body to tell her, was no descent from Beethoven to Hank Somerville, no cheap venture into torch. It was the coming true of 'all she had dreamed for Veda, all she had believed in, worked for, dedicated her life to. The only difference was that the dream that had come true was a thousand times rosier than the dream she had dreamed. And come what might, by whatever means she would have to take, she knew she would have to get Veda back.

This resolve remained hot in her mouth, but back of it, like a fishbone across her throat, was her determination that Veda, and not herself, would have to make the first move. She tried to put this aside, and drove to Veda's one morning with every intention of stopping, ringing the bell, and going in. But as she approached the little white apartment house, she hurriedly told Tommy to drive on without stopping, and leaned far back in the car to avoid being seen, as she had done that morning at Mrs. Lenhardt's. She felt hot-faced and silly, and the next time she decided to visit Veda she drove the 'car herself, and went alone. Again she went by without stopping. Then she took to driving past Veda's at night, and peeping, hoping to see her. Once she did see her, and quickly pulled in at the curb. Taking care not to slam the car door, she slipped out of the car and crept to the window. Veda was at a piano, playing. Then suddenly the miracle voice was everywhere, going through gla.s.s and masonry as though they were air. Mildred waited, a-tremble, until the song was finished, then ran back to her car and drove off.

But the broadcasts continued, and Mildred's feeling of being left out in the cold increased, until it became intolerable. Veda didn't appear again on the Snack-O-Ham program. To Mildred's astonishment, her regular spot on the air was Wednesdays, at 3.15, as part of the Treviso Hour, offered by star purpils of the same Carlo Treviso who had once closed the piano so summarily over her knuckles. And then, after listening to two of these broadcasts, and drinking in Veda's singing and everything 'the announcer said about her, Mildred had an idea. By making use of Mr. Treviso, she could compel Veda to call her on the phone, to thank her for favors rendered. After that, pride would be sashfled and almost anything might happen.

So presently she was in the same old anteroom, with the same old vocalizing going on inside, and her temper growing hotter and hotter. But when Mr. Treviso finally received her, she had herself under what she thought was perfect controL As he gave no sign of recognition, she recalled herself to him, and he looked at 'her sharply, then bowed, but otherwise made no comment. She then made her little speech, which sounded stiff, and no doubt was supposed to sound stiff. "Mr. Treviso, I've come on a matter that I shall have to ask you to keep confidential, and when I tell you the reason, I'm 'sure you'll be only too glad to do so. My daughter Veda, I believe, is now taking lessons from you. Now for reasons best known to herself, she prefers to have nothing to do with me at the moment, and far be it from me to intrude on her life, or press her for explanations. Just the same, I have a duty toward her, with regard 'to the expenses of her musical education. It was I, Mr. Treviso, who was responsible for her studying music in a serious way, and even though she elects to live apart from me, I still feel that her music is my responsibility, and in the future, without saying anything to her, without saying one word to her, Mr. Treviso, I'd like you to send your bifis to me, and not to her. I hope you don't find my request unreasonable."

Mr. Treviso had seated himself, and listened with his death-mask smile, and for some moments he studied his ftngernails attentively. Then he stood up. "Am ver' sorry, Madame, 'but dees is subject w'ich I cannot discuss wit' you."

"Well Fm very sorry too, Mr. Treviso, but I'm afraid you'll have to discuss it with me. Veda is my daughter, and—"

"Madame, you excuse me, 'ave engagement."

With quick strides, he crossed to the door, and opened it as though Mildred were the queen of Naples. Nothing happened. Mildred sat there, and crossed her still shapely legs in a way that said plainly she had no intention of going until she had finished her business. He frowned, looked at his watch. "Yes, himportant engagement. You excuse me? Please."

He went out, then, and Mildred was left alone. After a few minutes, the little fat woman came in, found a piece of music, sat down at the piano, and began to play it. She played it loud, and 'then played it again, and again, and each time she played it was louder and stifi louder. That went on perhaps a half hour, and Mildred still sat there. Then Mr. Treviso came back and motioned the little fat woman out of the room. He strode up and down for a few minutes, frowning hard, then went over and closed the door. Then he sat down near Mildred, and touched her knee with a long, bony forefinger, "Why you want dees girl back? Tell me that?"

"Mr. Treviso, you mistake my motives. I—"

"No mistake, no mistake at all. I tell Veda, well you pretty lucky, kid, somebody else pay a bill now. And she, she got no idea at all, hey? Don't know who to call up, say thanks, sure is swell, how you like to see me again, hey?"

"Well that wasn't my idea, Mr. Treviso, but I'm sure, if Veda did happen to guess who was paying the bill, and called up about it, I could find it in my heart to—"

"Listen, you. I tell you one t'ing. Is make no difference to me who pay. But I say to you: you want to 'ear dees girl sing, you buy a ticket. You pay a 'buck. You pay two bucks. If a ticket cost eight eighty, O.K. you pay eight eighty, but don't you try to 'ear dees girl free. Because maybe cost you more than a whole Metropolitan Grand Opera is wort'."

"This is not a question of money."

"No by G.o.d, sure is not. You go to a zoo, hey? See little snake? Is come from India, is all red, yellow, black, ver' pretty little snake. You take 'ome, hey? Make little pet, like puppy dog? No—you got more sense. I tell you, is same wit' dees Veda. You buy ticket, you look at a little snake, but you no take home. No."

"Are you insinuating that my daughter is a snake?"

"No—is a coloratura soprano, is much worse. A little snake, love mamma, do what papa tells, maybe, but a coloratura soprano, love n.o.body but own G.o.ddam self. Is son-b.i.t.c.hbast', worse than all a snake in a world. Madame, you leave dees girl alone."