‘Miss Stanway!’

The rival divas faced each other, murderous, for a few seconds, and then Milly turned, laughing, to Harry Burgess, who, consciously secretarial, was standing near with several others.

‘Either Miss Gardner apologises to me at once,’ she said lightly, ’at once, or else either she or I leave the Society.’

Milly tapped her foot, hummed, and looked up into Miss Gardner’s eyes with serene contempt.  Ethel was not the only one who was amazed at the absolute certitude of victory in little Millicent’s demeanour.  Harry Burgess spoke apart with the conductor upon this astonishing contretemps, and while he did so Milly, still smiling, hummed rather more loudly the very phrase of Ella’s at which Miss Gardner had stumbled.  It was a masterpiece of insolence.

‘We think Miss Gardner should withdraw the expression,’ said Harry after he had coughed.

‘Never!’ said Miss Gardner.  ‘Good-bye all!’

Thus ended Miss Gardner’s long career as an operatic artist—­and not without pathos, for the ageing woman sobbed as she left the room from which she had been driven by a pitiless child.

* * * * *

According to custom Harry Burgess set out from the National School, where the rehearsals were held, with Ethel and Milly for Hillport.  But at the bottom of Church Street Ethel silently fell behind and joined a fourth figure which had approached.  The two couples walked separately to Hillport by the field-path.  As Harry and Milly opened the wicket at the foot of Stanway’s long garden, Ethel ran up, alone again.

‘That you?’ cried a thin voice under the trees by the gate.  It was Rose, taking late exercise after her studies.

‘Yes, it’s us,’ replied Harry.  ’Shall you give me a whisky if I come in?’

And he entered the house with the three girls.

’I’m certain Rose saw you with Fred in the field, and if she did she’s sure to split to mother,’ Milly whispered as she and Ethel ran upstairs.  They could hear Harry already strumming on the piano.

‘I don’t care!’ said Ethel callously, exasperated by three days of futility at the office, and by the manifest injustice of fate.

‘My dear, I want to speak to you,’ said Leonora to Ethel, when the informal supper was over, and Harry had buckishly departed, and Rose and Milly were already gone upstairs.  Not a word had been mentioned as to the great episode of the rehearsal.

‘Well, mother?’ Ethel answered in a tone of weary defiance.

Leonora still sat at the supper-table, awaiting John, who was out at a meeting; Ethel stood leaning against the mantelpiece like a boy.

‘How often have you been seeing Fred Ryley lately?’ Leonora began with a gentle, pacific inquiry.

‘I see him every day at the works, mother.’

‘I don’t mean at the works; you know that, Ethel.’

‘I suppose Rose has been telling you things.’