Mr. Pate, who looked upon her as the great servant he would give to music, was screened away in the judges’ box: Mr. Chown, who looked upon her as an income, watched Mary Ellen take her cloak from a long row hanging on the wall and go towards the stairs she had just descended. Evidently, she was for a breath of air and he thought it would be a shrewd air on his bare head, but the opportunity of private conversation was too good to be missed and he awaited her return at the foot of the stair. “Oh, you are going out?” he said. “So’m I. It’s hot in here.” He modified the Gallicism of his bow. “Yes,” she said, consenting to his escort. She knew, better than he did, that the sort of boisterous crowd which awaits the declaration of an election result was assembled round the Drill Hall; it would be convenient to have this big man with her to shoulder a way through it. Their clothes stamped them as competitors and the crowd gave passage. Evening dress was licensed in Staithley that night, but his arm was agreeably protective till they were through the crush; then he withdrew it. “I’m glad to be out of that,” he said. “There’s too much crowd to-night,” said Mary Ellen. “Ah, you feel that, do you?” “Choral singing!” she said, with immense disgust. “Yes, indeed. It does make one feel one of a crowd. I’ve often wondered, in my own case, if I shouldn’t have done better to have gone on the stage.” She looked him over. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you weren’t always fat. It’s too late now.” Mr. Chown swallowed hard. “Yes, for me,” he said. “Not for you. Would you care to go on the stage if the chance came?” “Would a duck swim?” Ducks, he thought, more often drowned than swam on the stage; that was why there was always so much room at the top. “It’s very hard work,” he said. “I’m not afraid of work,” she said, and then remembered her grievance, “if I can see it leading anywhere. Work that only leads to singing with the crowd isn’t funny.” “Oh, I can do better than that for you.” “You can? You?” “If you will work. If, for instance, you will get rid of your Lancashire accent.” “Tha’ gornless fule,” she said, “if tha’ doan’t kna’ th’ differ ’atween Lankysheer an’ t’other A’ll show thee. Me got an accent? Me that’s worked like a Fury these last two years to lose my accent? Let me tell you I’ve had the best teachers in Staithley and--” “Yes,” he interrupted. “The difference is amazing. I realize how you must have worked. It is only a question now of, so to speak, a finishing school. The best teachers in Staithley are, after all, Staithley teachers. I am thinking of London and perhaps not so much of conscious work as unconscious imitation of the speech of the people who are around you.” “London!” she said. “London! Who are you?”