Horatia persevered.
“But how would it touch them?”
“In the proposed auditorium we would have many fine concerts for everyone.”
“Free?”
“My dear young lady, it costs a thousand dollars to bring great artists here.”
“I see.” Horatia’s tone was not encouraging. “Have you seen many soldiers and sailors, Mrs. Hill?”
“My own son was an aviator.”
“I mean common soldiers. The kind that like ‘Ja-da’ and ‘Come On, Papa’ and would go to sleep at a concert, most of them. They need—oh, tremendously, to be educated in just the things you speak of. But you can’t do it by building recherché auditoriums. They need lots of things more than that—and lots of things before that. Mrs. Hill, I haven’t an objection in the world to a studio building for the Symphony—I’d be glad to contribute if you’ll bring Galli-Curci and Kreisler—but to go about asking funds from people on the plea that you are doing something in the name of those unfortunate boys who were killed or of those commoners who once were soldiers is to me an absurdity.”
It was not the sort of reception to which Mrs. Hill was accustomed when she went to society editors.
“May I see Mr. Langley?”