“Tom, Tom!” protested Walter.
“Eh, lad,” said Tom, “I’ve got the heartache for the waif, but you’re aiming to sink two years’ good work in her, and she a Bradshaw. Man, they’re the Devil’s Own. They’ll take and take and—do you fancy this is like me, Walter? Me arguing against one of the downs being given a chance to get up! But when it’s you that’s giving the chance and a Bradshaw that’s to take it I’ve a sinking feeling that the risk’s too big. They’ll bite the hand that feeds them, they’ll—”
“Well, I’ll be bitten then. There are times when I doubt if you’ve a proper sense of the place of music in the world and I tell you, this is one of them. If I’m vouchsafed the chance of giving that voice to mankind, I can do without having her gratitude thrown in. I’m doing this to please myself, my lad, and for the honor and the glory of Staithley Bridge. If she goes on to where I’m seeing her, she’ll wipe her boots on me in any case, but she’ll not wipe out the fame of Staithley that bred her.”
“She was bred in Jackman’s Buildings. The beastliest slum in the town.”
“They’ll go pilgrimages to her birthplace.”
“You don’t believe that. Music’s as bad as drink for damaging a man’s sense of proportion.”
Mary Ellen fidgeted, not with, the distress which may be supposed to assail a sensitive child who is discussed before her face, but because the conversation missed her main point. “When’s supper?” she asked.
“After your bath,” said Walter, defying Tom with his eyes. Tom took up his hat again. “I’m off,” he said. “I’ve never found the cure for fools.”
“All right,” said Walter. “In two years’ time, you’ll be the fool. I’m going bail for that Voice, and it’s neither here nor there that the Voice goes with a Bradshaw.”
“Good night,” said Tom, and went.