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       He found Mr Collier worried. They'd already had one rehearsal of the new number and Miss Maydew, who was sitting at the front of the stalls in a fur coat, had said it was vulgar. She said she didn't mind sex, but this wasn't in the right class. It was music-hall; it wasn't revue. Mr Collier didn't care a damn what Miss Maydew thought, but it might mean that Mr Cohen … He said, 'If you'd tell me what's vulgar... I just don't see...'

       Mr Davis said, 'I'll tell you if it's vulgar. Have it again,' and he sat back in the stalls just behind Miss Maydew with the warm smell of her fur and her rather expensive scent in his nostrils, sucking a toffee. It seemed to him that life could offer nothing better than this. And the show was his. At any rate forty per cent of it was his. He picked out his forty per cent as the girls came on again in blue shorts with a red stripe and bras and postmen's caps, carrying cornucopias: the dark girl with the oriental eyebrows on the right, the fair girl with the rather plump legs and the big mouth (a big mouth was a good sign in a girl). They danced between two pillar-boxes, wriggling their little neat hips, and Mr Davis sucked his toffee.

       'It's called "Christmas for Two",' Mr Collier said.

       'Why?'

       'Well, you see, those cornucops are meant to be Christmas presents made sort of classical. And "For Two" just gives it a little sex. Any number with "For Two" in it goes.'

       'We've already got "An Apartment for Two",' Miss May-dew said, 'and "Two Make a Dream".'

       'You can't have too much of "For Two",' Mr Collier said. He appealed pitiably, 'Can't you tell me what's vulgar?'

       'Those cornucopias, for one thing.'

       'But they are classical,' Mr Collier said. 'Greek.'

       'And the pillar-boxes, for another.'

       'The pillar-boxes,' Mr Collier exclaimed hysterically. 'What's wrong with the pillar-boxes?'

       'My dear man,' Miss Maydew said, 'if you don't know what's wrong with the pillar-boxes, I'm not going to tell you. If you like to get a committee of matrons I wouldn't mind telling them. But if you must have them, paint them blue and let them be air mail.'

       Mr Collier said, 'Is this a game or what is it?' He asked bitterly, 'What a time you must have when you write a letter.' The girls went patiently on behind his back to the jingle of the piano, offering the cornucopias, offering their collar-stud bottoms. He turned on them fiercely. 'Stop that, can't you? and let me think.'

       Mr Davis said, 'It's fine. We'll have it in the show.' It made him feel good to contradict Miss Maydew, whose perfume he was now luxuriously taking in. It gave him in a modified form the pleasure of beating her or sleeping with her: the pleasure of mastery over a woman of superior birth. It was the kind of dream he had indulged in adolescence, while he carved his name on the desk and seat in a grim Midland board school.

       'You really think that, Mr Davenant?'

       'My name's Davis.'

       'I'm sorry, Mr Davis.' Horror on horror, Mr Collier thought; he was alienating the new backer now.

       'I think it's lousy,' Miss Maydew said. Mr Davis took another piece of toffee. 'Go ahead, old man,' he said. 'Go ahead.' They went ahead: the songs and dances floated agreeably through Mr Davis's consciousness, sometimes wistful, sometimes sweet and sad, sometimes catchy. Mr Davis liked the sweet ones best. When they sang, 'You have my mother's way', he really did think of his mother: he was the ideal audience. Somebody came out of the wings and bellowed at Mr Collier. Mr Collier screamed, 'What do you say?' and a young man in a pale blue jumper went on mechanically singing: 'Your photograph Is just the sweetest half...'

       'Did you say Christmas tree?' Mr Collier yelled.

       'In your December I shall remember...'

       Mr Collier screamed, 'Take it away.' The song came abruptly to an end with the words 'Another mother'. The young man said, 'You took it too fast,' and began to argue with the pianist.

       'I can't take it away,' the man in the wings said. 'It was ordered.' He wore an apron and a cloth cap. He said, 'It took a van and two horses. You'd better come and have a look.' Mr Collier disappeared and returned immediately.' My God!' he said,' it's fifteen feet high. Who can have played this fool trick?' Mr Davis was in a happy dream: his slippers had been warmed by a log fire in a big baronial hall, a little exclusive perfume like Miss Maydew's was hovering in the air, and he was just going to go to bed with a good but aristocratic girl to whom he had been properly married that morning by a bishop. She reminded him a little of his mother. 'In your December...'

       He was suddenly aware that Mr Collier was paying, 'And there's a crate of glass balls and candles.'

       'Why,' Mr Davis said, 'has my little gift arrived?'

       'Your—little—?'

       'I thought we'd have a Christmas party on the stage,' Mr Davis said. 'I like to get to know all you artistes in a friendly homey way. A little dancing, a song or two,' there seemed to be a visible lack of enthusiasm, 'plenty of pop.' A pale smile lit Mr Collier's face. 'Well,' he said, 'it's very kind of you, Mr Davis. We shall certainly appreciate it.'

       'Is the tree all right?'

       'Yes, Mr Daven—Davis, it's a magnificent tree.' The young man in the blue jumper looked as if he was going to laugh and Mr Collier scowled at him.' We all thank you very much, Mr Davis, don't we, girls?' Everybody said in refined and perfect chorus as if the words had been rehearsed, 'Rather, Mr Collier,' except Miss Maydew, and a dark girl with a roving eye who was two seconds late and said, 'You bet.'

       That attracted Mr Davis's notice. Independent, he thought approvingly, stands out from the crowd. He said,' I think I'll step behind and look at the tree. Don't let me be in the way, old man. Just you carry on,' and made his way into the wings where the tree stood blocking the way to the changing rooms. An electrician had hung some of the baubles on for fun and among the litter of properties under the bare globes it sparkled with icy dignity. Mr Davis rubbed his hands, a buried childish delight came alive. He said, 'It looks lovely.' A kind of Christmas peace lay over his spirit: the occasional memory of Raven was only like the darkness pressing round the little lighted crib.

       'That's a tree all right,' a voice said. It was the dark girl. She had followed him into the wings; she wasn't wanted on the stage for the number they were rehearsing. She was short and plump and not very pretty; she sat on a case and watched Mr Davis with gloomy friendliness.

       'Gives a Christmas feeling,' Mr Davis said.

       'So will a bottle of pop,' the girl said.

       'What's your name?'

       'Ruby.'

       'What about meeting me for a spot of lunch after the rehearsal's over?'

       'Your girls sort of disappear, don't they?' Ruby said. 'I could do with a steak and onions, but I don't want any conjuring. I'm not a detective's girl.'

       'What's that?' Mr Davis said sharply.

       ' She's the Yard man's girl. He was round here yesterday.'

       'That's all right,' Mr Davis said crossly, thinking hard, 'you're safe with me.'