affording encouragement and reward to young musical talent. To you, Mr. Graham, this may be a commercial boon to Bellville, but to me it is still a solemn tribute to my late husband.”
Tod flushed. “But, of course, Mrs. Cornish. That’s why—”
“That is why,” Nydia continued, deliberately taking the words away from him, “I have always cooperated with every effort to make the festival a greater and richer experience for everybody concerned. I feel that Martin would approve. He was not a man to shut out any appreciative ear.”
“Exactly—” Tod began.
“And so I suggest we put this matter to a vote, Mr. Graham.”
“But the fund—” Stanley Watts protested.
“Immediately,” Nydia added. “It’s frightfully stuffy in this room.”
This was no request; it was a command. A momentary silence, and then Tod Graham, obviously much relieved at this unexpected turn of events, placed a motion before the board to authorize the required expenditure. Lisa declined to vote, protesting too little familiarity with the situation; but she did observe with interest the votes of the other members. Miss Oberon’s barely audible “aye”; Stanley Watts’ reluctant “Oh, all right, if Nydia insists”; Dr. Hazlitt’s hesitation.
“Dr. Hazlitt.”
Miss Pratt, now cast as roll caller, had to repeat the name twice before the doctor’s bowed head rose to attention.
“Your vote, Dr. Hazlitt?”
For a moment Lisa expected him to ask what the vote was about; then he glanced at Nydia like a forgetful actor seeking the prompter’s box.
“Aye,” he whispered, and lowered his eyes again.
“Aye,” the professor said carelessly, as if the entire procedure bored him.
“Aye,” said Nydia Cornish, and it was done.
Joel Warren looked enormously pleased, almost as pleased as Tod Graham. He rolled up the blueprints and shook hands with Tod. The meeting was breaking up. As Nydia Cornish made her stately way from the head of the table back to the door, Joel addressed her, too.
“And thank you, Mrs. Cornish,” he said. “I’ll get the job started immediately.”
The woman paused quite close to Lisa. There was a fragrance about her, something spicy and expensive. And old. Strong with age. She’s only fifty-five, Lisa thought. She seems much older.
“I’m counting on you, Joel,” she said.
Joel. They were friends, then. You’re a snob, Lisa Bancroft.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Joel answered. “I’m going to be out there on the job every day pushing things along. After all, this is a very special festival.”
He smiled again, that very nice smile, and Nydia Cornish nodded. “Quite special,” she agreed.
“I can understand your feelings,” Lisa cut in. “I’ve taken Masterson House, you know. I walked out one night and heard Marta working on her concerto. It’s lovely.”
Perhaps it was rude to enter a conversation uninvited, but not
that
rude! The stare with which Nydia Cornish now fixed Lisa did much to lower the temperature of a stuffy room.
“You heard—?” she echoed.
“Why, yes. I walked down to the old studio ruins. It was quite still, and I could hear the piano distinctly. An inspired theme, Mrs. Cornish. You must be quite proud of your daughter.”
This time Lisa returned the stare. It was Nydia who looked away first.
“You must be mistaken, Miss Bancroft. Marta hasn’t worked at her music for a week. She’s having one of her stubborn spells. Perhaps now—” and here the impossible happened: Nydia smiled, briefly, at Joel Warren—”she may resume work. Speak to her, Joel.”
“I sure will!” Joel said.
“Splendid. Now, I’m sure you can all manage without me. Tod, will you see me to my car?”
They were all so happy now. Tod was at Nydia’s side in an instant, grinning like a schoolboy who’s just scored for dear old alma mater. “Don’t go away, Stanley,” he called over his shoulder. “I want to go over some other figures with you. We want to get
Tod flushed. “But, of course, Mrs. Cornish. That’s why—”
“That is why,” Nydia continued, deliberately taking the words away from him, “I have always cooperated with every effort to make the festival a greater and richer experience for everybody concerned. I feel that Martin would approve. He was not a man to shut out any appreciative ear.”
“Exactly—” Tod began.
“And so I suggest we put this matter to a vote, Mr. Graham.”
“But the fund—” Stanley Watts protested.
“Immediately,” Nydia added. “It’s frightfully stuffy in this room.”
This was no request; it was a command. A momentary silence, and then Tod Graham, obviously much relieved at this unexpected turn of events, placed a motion before the board to authorize the required expenditure. Lisa declined to vote, protesting too little familiarity with the situation; but she did observe with interest the votes of the other members. Miss Oberon’s barely audible “aye”; Stanley Watts’ reluctant “Oh, all right, if Nydia insists”; Dr. Hazlitt’s hesitation.
“Dr. Hazlitt.”
Miss Pratt, now cast as roll caller, had to repeat the name twice before the doctor’s bowed head rose to attention.
“Your vote, Dr. Hazlitt?”
For a moment Lisa expected him to ask what the vote was about; then he glanced at Nydia like a forgetful actor seeking the prompter’s box.
“Aye,” he whispered, and lowered his eyes again.
“Aye,” the professor said carelessly, as if the entire procedure bored him.
“Aye,” said Nydia Cornish, and it was done.
Joel Warren looked enormously pleased, almost as pleased as Tod Graham. He rolled up the blueprints and shook hands with Tod. The meeting was breaking up. As Nydia Cornish made her stately way from the head of the table back to the door, Joel addressed her, too.
“And thank you, Mrs. Cornish,” he said. “I’ll get the job started immediately.”
The woman paused quite close to Lisa. There was a fragrance about her, something spicy and expensive. And old. Strong with age. She’s only fifty-five, Lisa thought. She seems much older.
“I’m counting on you, Joel,” she said.
Joel. They were friends, then. You’re a snob, Lisa Bancroft.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Joel answered. “I’m going to be out there on the job every day pushing things along. After all, this is a very special festival.”
He smiled again, that very nice smile, and Nydia Cornish nodded. “Quite special,” she agreed.
“I can understand your feelings,” Lisa cut in. “I’ve taken Masterson House, you know. I walked out one night and heard Marta working on her concerto. It’s lovely.”
Perhaps it was rude to enter a conversation uninvited, but not
that
rude! The stare with which Nydia Cornish now fixed Lisa did much to lower the temperature of a stuffy room.
“You heard—?” she echoed.
“Why, yes. I walked down to the old studio ruins. It was quite still, and I could hear the piano distinctly. An inspired theme, Mrs. Cornish. You must be quite proud of your daughter.”
This time Lisa returned the stare. It was Nydia who looked away first.
“You must be mistaken, Miss Bancroft. Marta hasn’t worked at her music for a week. She’s having one of her stubborn spells. Perhaps now—” and here the impossible happened: Nydia smiled, briefly, at Joel Warren—”she may resume work. Speak to her, Joel.”
“I sure will!” Joel said.
“Splendid. Now, I’m sure you can all manage without me. Tod, will you see me to my car?”
They were all so happy now. Tod was at Nydia’s side in an instant, grinning like a schoolboy who’s just scored for dear old alma mater. “Don’t go away, Stanley,” he called over his shoulder. “I want to go over some other figures with you. We want to get
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