She looked at me hard. “What would I do?” she asked after several moments of scrutiny. “Accompany,” I answered. “Even Devil Paggi” (I am ashamed to say that we called him that sometimes) “says you can do that--” “Yes--” Viola answered in a funny, low voice. “He said he’d get any of us positions,” I went on, “and touring with a great singer wouldn’t be bad--” That captured her! “Basses are always fat,” she said; “I hope to goodness it will be a tenor!” Which was a whole lot like Viola, and a joke that I didn’t appreciate then, for when Viola--who did learn to accompany really beautifully--got her position, it was with a fat German contralto who had five children, a fat poodle dog that Viola had to chaperon a great deal of the time, and a temper that Viola had to suffer, or--leave! I stood up a little time after that, and as I stepped into the corridor I met Leslie, who was taking a letter out for Beata to mail. “Look here,” I said, as I swung into step by her, and we reached the hall near the entrance door, “Viola had a letter from her mother, and her father hasn’t left much--” “How ghastly!” “Well,” I said, “I don’t know. . . . It may help Viola--” “I’ll lend her anything she needs--any amount,” said Leslie, and then I spoke. “Please _don’t_,” I begged. She drew herself up. “Will you be good enough to explain?” she said frigidly, and I did. I said that, unless she intended to support Viola all her life, she had no business to get Viola into the habit of taking and expecting, and I went on to say that it was the one chance for Viola to learn to work, and that she would be helped through her trouble _by_ work. I was sure she would, and I was sure that Leslie oughtn’t to help her, and I spoke with a lot of energy. Leslie didn’t like it--Rome wasn’t built in a day!--and then she said that when she needed my expert advice she’d call for it, and that she didn’t intend to see Viola starve; and after that, we parted. At dinner that night she was frosty as James Whitcomb Riley’s famed pumpkins, but I could see by Viola’s careless manner (Viola always paid a great deal of attention to Leslie _after_ she borrowed money) that Leslie hadn’t spoken to her of her willingness to help. For a couple of days Leslie avoided making real conversation with me, and then one morning while I was practising I looked up to see Leslie in the doorway. She had on a French blue negligee that had pale two-toned pink ribbons on it, and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and she carried a tray on which was a pot of tea, some little cakes that she knows I like, and some biscuits. She always got her own breakfast because the pension allowance was small, and she knew that I was always hungry until after lunch. “Here!” she said, as she set it down on a chair by me. “Suppose you’re starved as usual. I, myself, am entirely certain that the scant breakfasts stunt the race--I’m _certain_ that it makes them short--I want to say several things--”