The first number, called The Firebird, meant nothing to Mildred. She couldn’t make out, after reading her program, whether there was to be a ballet or not, and she wasn’t at all certain, after it finished, whether there had been one or not. She concluded, while Mr. Treviso was still acknowledging his applause, that if there had been one she would have noticed it. He went out, the lights went up, and for a long time there was a murmur like the murmur of the ocean, as the later comers ran, beckoned to each other, and followed hurrying ushers, to find their seats. Then the murmur died off a little. The lights went out. A drawstring pulled tight on Mildred’s stomach.
The parasol, wide open and framing the bonnet in a luminous pink circle, caught the crowd by surprise, and Veda was in the center of the stage before they recovered. Then they decided they liked it, and the applause broke sharp. For a moment Veda stood there, smiling at them, smiling at the orchestra, smiling at Mr. Treviso. Then expertly, she closed the parasol, planted it on the floor in front of her, and folded both hands over its rather high handle. Mildred, having learned to note such things by now, saw that it gave her a piquant, foreign look, and something to do with her hands. The first number, Caro Nome, from Rigoletto, went off well, and Veda was recalled for several bows. The second number, Una Voce Poco Fa, from the Barber of Seville, ended the first half of the concert. The lights went up. People spilled into the aisles, smoking, talking, laughing, visiting. Bert was sitting on the box again, saying it was none of his business, but in his opinion that conductor could very well have allowed Veda to sing an encore after all that applause. By God, that was an ovation if he ever heard one. Monty, not much more of an authority in this field than Bert was, but at least a little more of an authority, said it was his impression that no encores were ever sung in the first half of a program. All that, said Monty, in his understanding at least, was reserved for the end. Mildred said she was sure that was the case. Bert said then it was his mistake and that explained it. Because if he knew anything about it, these people were eating it up, and it did look as though Treviso would want to give the kid a break, if he could. All agreed that the people were eating it up.
The New World Symphony had little effect on Mildred, except that three airplanes went over while it was being played, and she became terrified lest one go over while Veda was singing, and ruin everything. But the sky was clear when she appeared again, looking much smaller than she had in the first half, quite girlish, a little pathetic. The parasol was gone, and the bonnet, instead of being on Veda’s head, was carried in her hand. A single orchid was pinned to Veda’s shoulder, and Mildred fiercely hoped that it was one of the six she had sent. The program said merely “Mad Scene from Lucia di Lammermoor,” but there seemed to be a little more tension than usual before Mr. Treviso raised his stick, and presently Mildred knew she was present at a tremendous vocal effort. She had never heard one note of this music before, so far as she knew; it must have been rehearsed at the studio, not at home. After the first few bars, when she sensed that Veda was all right, that she would make no slip, that she would get through to the end, Mildred relaxed a little, permitted herself to dote on the demure, pathetic little figure pouring all this elaborate vocal fretwork out at the stars. There came a tap on her shoulder, and Mr. Pierce was handing her a pair of opera glasses. Eagerly she took them, adjusted them, levelled them at Veda. But after a few moments she put them down. Up close, she could see the wan, stagey look that Veda turned on the audience, and the sharp, cold, look that she constantly shot at Mr. Treviso, particularly when there was a break, and she was waiting to come in. It shattered illusion for Mildred. She preferred to remain at a distance, to enjoy this child as she seemed, rather than as she was.
The number was quite long, was in fact the longest number Mildred had ever heard, but when it was done the sound that swept over the vast amphitheatre was like thunder. Veda came out for bow after bow, and presently, after her dozenth or so reappearance, she came out followed by Mr. Treviso, and without hat or any encumbrance, just a simple, friendly little girl, hoping to be liked. A gentleman with a flute stepped forward, carrying a chair, and camped near Veda. When she saw him she went over and shook his hand. Then Mr. Treviso took the orchestra briskly through the introduction of Lo, Hear the Gentle Lark, and there was a ripple of applause, for this was one of the things that Veda had made popular on the radio. When she got through there were cheers, and she began a whole series of her radio numbers: Love’s Old Sweet Song, Schubert’s Ave Maria, an arrangement of the Blue Danube Waltz that permitted her to do vocal gingerbread while the orchestra played the tune, and a Waldteufel waltz Mr. Treviso had dug up for her, called Estudiantina.
Many of these had been called for, with insistent shouting, by the audience, and toward the end, the orchestra sat back and listened while Mr. Treviso accompanied her on the piano that had been pushed out during the intermission. Now Veda came out, and said: “Even if it’s not a song that’s supposed to be sung on a symphony program, may I sing a song just because I want to sing it?” As the audience broke into amiable applause, Monty looked at Mildred, and she sensed something coming. Then Mr. Treviso played a short introduction, and Veda began the song about rainbows that had been Mildred’s favorite back in the happy days when she used to come home for her rest, and Veda would play the numbers she liked to hear.
It was all for her.
Veda began it, but when she finished it, or whether she finished it, Mildred never quite knew. Little quivers went through her and they kept going through her the rest of the night, during the supper party, when Veda sat with the white scarf wound around her throat, during the brief half hour, while she undressed Veda, and put the costume away; in the dark, while she lay there alone, trying to sleep, not wanting to sleep.
This was the climax of Mildred’s life.
It was also the climax, or would have been if she hadn’t got it postponed, of a financial catastrophe that had been piling up on her since the night she so blithely agreed to take the house off Mrs. Beragon’s hands for $30,000, and pay the tax lien of $3,100. She had expected, when she made that arrangement, to do the major part of the financing through the Federal Homes Administration, about which she had heard. She received her first jolt when she paid a visit to this authority, and found it made no loans of more than $16,000. She had to have at least $20,000, and wanted $25,000. She received another jolt when she went to her bank. It was willing to lend her whatever she wanted, seemed to regard her as an excellent risk, but refused to lend anything at all until repairs were made to the property, particularly in the way of a new roof.