“Accompany,” I answered. “Even Devil Paggi” (I am ashamed to say that we called him that sometimes) “says you can do that—”
“Yes—” Viola answered in a funny, low voice.
“He said he’d get any of us positions,” I went on, “and touring with a great singer wouldn’t be bad—”
That captured her!
“Basses are always fat,” she said; “I hope to goodness it will be a tenor!” Which was a whole lot like Viola, and a joke that I didn’t appreciate then, for when Viola—who did learn to accompany really beautifully—got her position, it was with a fat German contralto who had five children, a fat poodle dog that Viola had to chaperon a great deal of the time, and a temper that Viola had to suffer, or—leave!
I stood up a little time after that, and as I stepped into the corridor I met Leslie, who was taking a letter out for Beata to mail.
“Look here,” I said, as I swung into step by her, and we reached the hall near the entrance door, “Viola had a letter from her mother, and her father hasn’t left much—”
“How ghastly!”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know. . . . It may help Viola—”
“I’ll lend her anything she needs—any amount,” said Leslie, and then I spoke.