About seven, kindly Mrs Scatchard brought her up some tea, her excuse for this attention being that “blood” could not be expected to get up without a cup of this stimulant.  Mrs Scatchard, like most stout women, was of a nervous, kindly, ingenuous disposition.  It hurt Mavis considerably to tell her the story she had concocted, of a husband in straitened circumstances in America, who was struggling to prepare a home for her.  Mrs Scatchard was herself a bereaved mother.  Much moved by her recollections, she gave Mavis needed and pertinent advice with reference to her condition.

“There is kindness in the world,” thought Mavis, when she was alone.

After breakfast, that was supplied at a previously arranged charge of fourpence, Mavis, fearing the company of her thoughts, betook herself to Miss Nippett in the Blomfield Road.

She found her elderly friend in bed, a queer, hapless figure in her pink flannel nightgown.

“I haven’t heard anything,” said Miss Nippett, as soon as she caught sight of Mavis.

“Of what?”

“What luck Mr Poulter’s had at the dancing competition!  Haven’t you come about that?”

“I came to see how you were.”

“Don’t you worry about me.  I shall be right again soon; reely I shall.”

Mavis tried to discover if Miss Nippett were properly looked after, but without result, Miss Nippett’s mind being wholly possessed by “Poulter’s” and its chief.

“He promised to send me a postcard to say how he got on, but I suppose he was too busy to remember,” sighed Miss Nippett.

“Surely not!”

“He’s like all these great men:  all their ’earts in their fame, with no thought for their humble assistants,” she complained, to add after a few moments’ pause, “A pity you’re married.”

“Why?”

“’Cause, since I’ve been laid up, he’s been in want of a reliable accompanist.”

Mavis explained that she would be glad of some work, at which her friend said: 

“Then off you go at once to the academy.  He’s often spoken of you, and quite nicely, and he’s asked for you in family prayers.  If he’s won the prize, it’s as sure as ‘knife’ that he’ll give you the job.  And mind you come and tell me if he’s won.”

Mavis thanked her wheezing, kind-hearted friend, and promised that she would return directly she had any news.  Then, with hope in her heart, she hurried to the well-remembered academy, where she had sought work so many eventful months ago.  As before, she looked into the impassive face of “Turpsichor” while she waited for the door to be answered.

A slatternly servant of the charwoman species replied to her summons.  Upon Mavis saying that she wanted to see Mr Poulter immediately, she was shown into the “Ladies’ Waiting Room,” from which Mavis gathered that Mr Poulter had returned.

After a while, Mr Poulter came into the room with a shy, self-conscious smile upon his lovable face.