# Our Little Girl/Chapter 7

VII
TWO VERDICTS
After graduation came Tommy.
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” remarked Dorothy. "Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“I haven’t been keeping myself,” answered Tommy, “I’ve been living at home.”
“You were writing a play, weren’t you?”
Tommy smiled deprecatingly.
“Oh, yes!” he said, as though that were to end the parley.
“When will we see it?”
Tommy asked permission to smoke a pipe. His plays were like vacation snapshots. They never turned out.
"You'll see it eventually, I suppose," he went on casually. "Several people are interested in it. You know as much about that as I do. I suppose you'll be renting Aeolian Hall next and becoming one of the season's most popular recitalists."
"I don't know. I've received an offer from a manager."
"But you don't mean to say you're going to appear under the generous auspices of the Harmony Concert Bureau!"
Tommy launched this languidly, apparently examining the coloring of his pipe as he spoke.
"I never told you anything about that! How do you know?"
"One picks up things here and there, knocking about doing feature stories. I did a little piece exposing that crowd a few months ago. Probably you didn't read it."
​His gaze indicated that he certainly hoped that she had.
“I've been so busy—but please tell me where and I'll send for a copy.”
“It doesn’t matter. It was only half a column or so. I called the place the Melody Music Mart to dodge libel although I had the stuff on the crew. It’s a simple game. They flatter graduates of conservatories with illiterate mail-order stuff. Then they stage a recital. That’s legitimate enough. But the artist has to pay all expenses of the show-"
“Why, that’s terrible!”
“No, there’s nothing terrible in that. Almost all début recitals are paid for by the artists. It’s the usual thing.”
“I never heard of that.”
“There probably are a lot of things you didn’t hear about at St. Cecilia’s. However, that’s the usual game. And a legitimate bureau charges you a fee for its assistance and supplies the hall and so on at cost. However, the Harmony boys make a genial profit out of the expense budget. Where the customary managerial fee is a hundred dollars, which ought to be all that the bureau should get, Harmony makes another hundred out of a padded rental—look up some concert announcements and see what sort of theatres they give you—inflated printing bills and a postage item that would run Sears, Roebuck for two weeks and three days.”
“Mother was so impressed, with the letter.”
“That was the idea of the letter. I’m glad you mentioned it, because Harmony gets a lot of young singers that way.”
“But one of the girls also got a letter and she went to see them and she says they were just lovely to her.”
Tommy always seemed a little too knowing.
“Lovely’s no word for it. They fall at your feet down ​there. They give you a so-called audition. You sing one song and everybody has ecstasies. They speak softly and carry a big stick. Do you know where you come in? You come in for a thousand dollars.”
Dorothy studied the floor thoughtfully.
“Isn’t that terrible?” she said. “Of course, I suppose I'll have to give a recital sooner or later, and I thought this——”
She made a disconsolate gesture.
Tommy moved closer to her and tried to take her hand in a paternal way. Dorothy resisted his effort.
“Listen, Dot," said Tommy. “I know a man who really is on the inside. He’s a critic for a big musical paper. I can give you a note to him and he'll hear you, and he’ll tell you what to do. He knows what he’s talking about, and he hasn’t anything to gain by it. His name’s Oscar Fleming. Maybe you’ve seen some of his articles.”
He resumed his attempt to hold Dorothy’s hand. This time Dorothy recognized the advance officially. If he couldn’t take an unspoken hint-
“Don’t, please, Tommy,” she said. “I really don’t like it. Girls don’t, Tommy.”
Generalizations removed any seeming confession of prudery.
Tommy overlooked the customary speech about her hands being cold. He admitted defeat by relighting a pipe which was glowing adequately.
“Anyhow,” he continued, “it’ll be worth your while going to see him. I’ll write to him about you, so all you'll have to do is drop in on him—he’s always in mornings— and then you'll get straight advice.”
“That’s very kind of you, Tommy. But I don’t want to put you to the trouble——”
​“No trouble.”
His hand went out instinctively, but he withdrew it before it obeyed that impulse.
“I like to do things for you, Dot, if you'll let me,” he explained. “It’s really the only fun I get out of life— doing things for people.”
Dorothy wasn’t impressed by the speech, but she admitted a sense of gratitude.
“If you’ve got a sheet of writing paper,” he continued, “T’ll fix up a note for you right now.”
She led him to the desk.
“Oh, you can look on,” he said, although she had shown no symptoms of withdrawing while he was composing.
Tommy’s unique if not altogether legible script produced a letter:
Dear Mr. FLEMING:
You'll recall me from our interview on why beginners don’t captivate critics and like matters.
I’m taking the liberty of introducing Miss Dorothy Reitz Loamford, who, I think, has unusual promise as a chanteuse. She'll be grateful for any advice you may see fit to give her— and, unlike the beginners we discussed, she'll listen to an expert. And, of course, I’ll be grateful, too!
Yours faithfully, Thomas A. Borge.
“How’s that?”
“That’s lovely of you, Tommy. And such a clever letter, too!”
Tommy inscribed an envelope, “Introducing Miss Dorothy Reitz Loamford.”
“If that doesn’t bring results,” he announced, as he slipped the sheet into the envelope, “we'll try something else that will!”
Dorothy placed the letter in the drawer of the desk.
“And please let me know how it works out,” he asked.
​“Oh, I certainly will.”
Tommy looked about indecisively.
“It’s not very late,” he suggested, “would you like to inspect some nice lowbrow movie where they play nice lowbrow music?”
“It’s too late,’ demurred Dorothy, “and I’ve been on the go a good deal lately and I’m a little tired.”
Tommy discerned a hint.
“T’ve got to be at work early tomorrow,” he said. “So T’ll let you get your beauty sleep. Not that you need that sort of sleep.”
“You don’t have to go, Tommy.”
Tommy stretched his arms.
“I might as well,” he said.
To remain would be an admission of weakness.
She went to the door with him. They shook hands. It was a short shake. Dorothy saw to that.
“And you'll be sure to let me know what happens?”
“Posolutely,” promised Dorothy, “absotively.”
It was one of Arnold’s favorite forms. "So this is Paris!" was another.
She thought that Tommy winced a bit as she closed the door.
Tommy’s note was received enthusiastically by Mrs. Loamford.
“You know,” she confided, “I always was a little suspicious of that Harmony Bureau letter. It was nice of him to tell you, wasn’t it? He seems to know a great deal about things. We'll go to see this man Fleming, Dorothy.”
Dorothy seemed reluctant. Why did her mother have to accompany her everywhere?
“You certainly should go!” insisted her mother. “There can be no harm in it—and you may get just the informa[tion] ​you need. If you’re bashful—and I don’t know why you should be, now that you’re a full-fledged graduate— I’ll do the talking. Besides, I’ve always said it does a singer no harm to be on good terms with the critics. They can make or break you.”
The upshot of which was that Tommy’s letter was presented at the offices of the Champion Piano Company, where Fleming had his headquarters. Several clericai workers took Dorothy and Mrs. Loamford in custody, before a heavily powdered young woman led them to a desk in the centre of a large office which looked like a stenographic ‘bureau.
Fleming proved to be a tall, thin personage, who wore almost black-rimmed glasses which buried their stems in a great quantity of gray-black hair. Fleming’s tonsorial arrangements conveyed the notion that he was his own barber. Although his glasses fitted snugly, he seemed to be looking over them.
“You were sent by—Mr. Burke, is it?” he inquired. “Oh, Mr. Borge. Ah, yes, [remember him. A tall young man. Yes, Mr. Borge. You sing, I believe. Soprano?”
“My daughter,” answered Mrs. Loamford, “graduated from St. Cecilia’s Conservatory. She is a lyric soprano, and her teachers consider her unusually promising . . .”
“I see,” commented Fleming, who would have stroked his beard had that been one of his possessions. “Miss Loamford sings.”
“Perhaps you would like to have her sing for you, Mr. Fleming,” intimated Mrs. Loamford.
She received an ocular kick under the table for this.
“A very good suggestion,” agreed Fleming. “Has she brought some of her music?”
“My daughter has memorized her songs.”
“Very good,” said Fleming, “but I was thinking of an ​accompanist. Several of the young men here play. Possibly they may know the accompaniments.”
He called a lean, dark youth from a neighboring desk.
“This is Mr. Goldstein,’ he explained. “Mrs. and Miss Loamford, Mr. Goldstein. Mr. Goldstein is a very fine pianist. I am sure he will be an excellent accompanist.”’
“Music?” queried Goldstein.
“My daughter has brought no music,” said Mrs. Loamford. “But surely you will be able to play her accompaniments. Do you know ‘On the Waters to Sing’ by Schubert or the Vilanelle by Dell’ Acqua?”
Goldstein shook his head.
“Perhaps,” suggested Fleming, “Mr. Goldstein name a few songs he can play without music.’
“Just a few things,” answered Goldstein, “like ‘At Dawning.’ Nothing-"
“Excellent!” cried Mrs. Loamford. “Dorothy sings it beautifully. My husband always says he would rather hear Dorothy sing ‘At Dawning’ than any of her foreign songs. She sings it so nicely!”
Fleming rose.
“Let us go to one of the salons,” he said.
He took them to a small chamber, handsomely furnished, which contained three grand pianos with conspicuous price tags.
“T’m sorry,” remarked Mrs. Loamford, “that Dorothy can’t sing for you her group of old French-"
“I’m sure she'll acquit herself nobly,” observed Fleming.
“A flat?” demanded Goldstein.
“For soprano,” said Mrs. Loamford.
Goldstein played a few chords. Fleming sat in a chair opposite the piano. Mrs. Loamford sat near Dorothy.
​“Take off your coat, Dorothy,” she suggested.
Dorothy placed her coat on the piano. She would have to go through with it, but it wasn’t at all what she had pictured. It was too cold, too—too commercial. Goldstein concluded his experiments with modulations, and played the introduction. Dorothy closed her eyes and sang. Fleming sat with his chin in his hands and his eyes closed. Goldstein, at the piano, also lowered his eyelids as he played. Mrs. Loamford didn’t close her eyes. One of them was on Dorothy and one on Fleming, if that were possible. She kept time with her head and indicated expression with her hands.
Fleming remained in his posture as Dorothy concluded her last “I love you.” Goldstein left the piano.
“All?” he asked.
Fleming looked up.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “Thank you, Mr. Goldstein. That will be all. Thank you.”
“Don’t you want to hear——” began Mrs. Loamford; but for once, Dorothy’s glances stopped her.
“Very nice," remarked Fleming, as Goldstein departed.
“Now do you really think-” Mrs. Loamford started.
“You have studied for how many years?” interrupted Fleming.
“About three years steadily,” replied Mrs. Loamford before Dorothy could answer. “But Dorothy had been singing all her life. In fact, she could sing before she could speak. Even as a little tot, she was most musical. She played toy pianos before she could walk. She had considerable instruction before she went to the conservatory. Our family-that is, mine-has always been musical. My brother-"
​Fleming interrupted the lecture with a cough.
“Miss Loamford obviously is musical,’ he said. “She seems to have natural pitch and natural placement. Her lower tones are not natural, but I have heard of singers who have overcome this defect by selecting songs which did not tax the lower register.”
“If you could hear my daughter in-"
Fleming continued.
“The upper tones are somewhat shrill. The throat is not relaxed properly. Some singers never acquire this knack. For concert work, however, they are adequate. The middle register is charming when it is not forced. Do not abuse it, Miss Loamford, and it will be an extremely valuable asset. Your diction is quite clear. Evidently you have been well taught in this respect.”
Mrs. Loamford tapped her foot impatiently. Fleming was too slow in getting to the point.
“Now, about a recital-" she said.
He bowed to Dorothy, who was still standing by the piano.
“I always think,” he began cautiously, “that another year or two of study-”
"Why, she is a graduate-" cut in Mrs. Loamford.
Fleming bowed.
“If there is any reason for haste, I must, of course, defer to your judgment. As her mother, you must know, At all events, a summer’s coaching with some competent instructor would be well.”
“Whom would you suggest??”
“There are several. Personally, I like to recommend Michel Soedlich.”
Dorothy smiled happily.
Mrs. Loamford explained that Dorothy had studied with Soedlich at the conservatory.
​“Personal coaching, I mean,” elucidated Fleming. “An hour or so daily. It will be fairly expensive, because Mr. Soedlich is much in demand, but it will be worthwhile. He is a master of interpretation.”
“Well, we can see about that,” said Mrs. Loamford. “What I really wanted to find out was what you thought about a manager.”
Fleming sat awhile in thought.
“Probably you could do no better,” he said finally “than to see Mr. Maxwell—Saul Maxwell—of the Underwood Concert Corporation. The Underwood bureau isn’t the largest in the city, but it stands very high and as far as I know, does everything to help young artists. You will find Mr. Maxwell most charming and I know that his organization will do everything in its power to make your daughter’s début a success.”
“And will they give her a contract?”
“That is a matter for you to discuss with Mr. Maxwell.”
Mrs. Loamford wrote the name and address on the back of a card.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Fleming.”
Fleming led them to an elevator.
“I’m always glad to be of service, Miss Loamford, I wish you the greatest possible success in your career. Call on me if I can help you. I am always here.”
He paused, although it was clear that he had something more to say.
“By the way,” he added, “if you ever need a piano, I shall be glad to take you through the warerooms. We have some remarkably fine instruments here. Let me present you with one of our booklets. It is interesting reading.”
The elevator arrived.
​Fleming shook hands with his visitors.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Fleming,” said Dorothy. “It’s so kind of you to give me so much of your time.”
“We appreciate your advice so much,” added Mrs. Loamford.
Fleming bowed.
“He’s very nice,” observed Dorothy. “Very nice"—and very meaningless. How could Mr. Fleming form any opinion of her singing after one song? This might be an audition, but it was an audition of little significance. She wondered whether all music critics looked like Fleming or behaved so suavely. She had always thought of them as savage, sarcastic gentlemen whose chief joy in life was ironic destruction. She remembered Madame Graaberg’s only words on the subject: “The critics killed my poor Paul.”
“We'll look up this man Maxwell,” said Mrs. Loamford. “Perhaps I’d better take your Uncle Elliott with me to settle the business side of it.”
"Please don't," begged Dorothy. "Tommy says it's all automatic. I'm sure the Underwood bureau is reliable. We used to get passes for their concerts at St. Cecilia's."
"Well, we'll see," commented Mrs. Loamford.
Dorothy didn't report promptly to Tommy. Tommy heard nothing of her visit to Fleming for ten days. Then he telephoned.
"I've been so busy," apologized Dorothy, "that I just didn't get to phoning you. Mr. Fleming was lovely."
"Where did he tell you to go?"
"To the Underwood bureau. Mr. Maxwell, I think, he said."
"It's a good place."
There was silence across the wire.
​“Are you doing anything tonight?”
“I’m sorry, Tommy. I’m afraid I can’t do anything.”
His behavior on his last visit had made it seem advisable not to encourage him—and yet, he was a valuable ally, professionally. If only he would be content to be a professional ally!
“Tomorrow night?”
“T’'ll be busy.”
“Wait till I see.”
“How about Thursday?”
A short silence. It was no use putting him off indefinitely.
“Yes, you can come up Thursday.”
Tommy seemed to be rather cleaned up on Thursday night. His clothes were beautifully pressed. He wore a stiff collar—something new in Dorothy’s experience. There were evidences that a barber had functioned within the hour.
Tommy had tickets for a motion-picture house. It was a remarkable picture this week, he said, although it wasn’t for hoi polloi—Tommy never said “the” hoi polloi —and well worth seeing. Dorothy was willing to go and delayed only so long over the traditional rite of “dressing” that they arrived at the theatre after half of the film had been exhibited. The large auditorium was empty. Hoi polloi evidently had found more entertaining screenings elsewhere.
The great merit of the picture doubtless prompted Tommy to discourse rapidly on matters in no way connected with the art of the cinema.
“I like to go out with you,” he confessed. “It’s different.”
Dorothy smiled and giggled a bit. It was genial but noncommittal. The response encouraged Tommy. ​“Most of the girls I know,” he continued, “aren’t serious about things. They like to go out with more or less attractive young them. men and dance. Headhunters, I call hunting a head for the family.”
He studied the effect of his aphorism. There was not much to study, for Dorothy considered it best to draw him out further.
“What I like about you,” he confessed, “is your determination to go through with something you really want to do. Most girls would be satisfied with hanging around waiting for daddy to come home. But you want to sing— and you’re going through with it. You could have stayed home and played around if you wanted to, you know.”
“I know it.”
“Yes, and that’s what I like. You didn’t go the easiest —I mean the obvious way. It’s harder, doing what you're doing, but it’s more real, if you understand me. You may not find success right away, you know.”
Dorothy seemed to be looking at the film too raptly to be appreciative. Tommy didn’t interest her when he was serious.
“And things may break wrong. You may be nervous at your first recital or out of voice or draw the wrong run of critics or hit opposition-"
“What do you mean, Tommy?"
Tommy sought her hands, which she promptly folded. It was a defence for which he had no counter-move.
“Well, what I mean is that you mustn’t be discouraged as if everything doesn’t go sensationally at first. But long as you believe in yourself, dear-"
Dorothy turned to him sharply.
“We're in a public place, Tommy.”
She didn’t like to rebuke him, but he was growing annoyingly intimate.
​Tommy grinned.
“All right, darling. That isn’t so affectionate.”
“I don’t like such endearments, Tommy. Please don’t.”
“Not from anybody?”
He looked sharply to see where this shot would land.
“Not from anybody.”
“You’re not discriminating against me?” he said lightly.
She determined to break this line of attack.
“No, and it’s nothing to talk about anyhow.”
“Not in a public place?”
“Not in any place.”
He sighed lugubriously.
“That’s just it,” he murmured, “nobody calls me darling and when I try to call anybody else darling -———”
“Is that a habit?”
“No, Dot, darling——”
“I told you not to-"
“Well, I won’t—if you don’t want me to, baby.”
“I won't be called baby.”
“Very good, Miss Loamford. Or would you prefer Madame Loamford?”
He laughed softly.
“Don’t mind the kidding, Dot. I guess you understand.”
“I don’t understand being called darling, dearie, baby and such things.”
He looked at her seriously.
“If you really don’t like it, Dot, why, that settles it as far as I’m concerned. So we'll stick to the picture.”
He felt a sudden thump against his shoulder. He turned about quickly, coming up face to face with a stout, red-faced woman.
“If you two want to make love,’ announced the stout, ​red-faced woman in a voice whose carrying power was by no means confined to the immediate vicinity, “get out on a bus and do your petting there. Some people like to enjoy the pictures without love-making.”
She leaned back and continued, apparently to herself:
“Some people make me sick, loving up in movie places. I’ve a good mind to call the usher and tell him to make some people behave. Disgusting. I call it. Some people-"
The diatribe faded into a confused mumbling.
Tommy turned to Dorothy.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he commented, none too softly. “Some people like to yell in public.”
He felt that it wasn’t a very good effort to cover his confusion. Dorothy smiled enigmatically. Another thump from the rear followed.
"What did you say?" demanded the stout, red-faced woman. "Did you have something to say? "Say it again, will you? Say it again!"
Tommy turned about quickly and whispered to Dorothy.
"It isn't much of a picture," he confided. "Let's go somewhere where there aren't so many pests."
Dorothy nodded, put on her hat and rose quickly. The stout red-faced woman also rose.
"I want to talk to you, young man," she said. "Come here just a minute."
Tommy disregarded her.
"Come on, Dot," he whispered, taking Dorothy by the arm.
He hurried her up the aisle to the door. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his adversary starting after him.
"Some people have a lot of nerve!" he heard her exclaim. "A decent woman can't come to a picture show ​without being annoyed by mushy couples. It’s a shame——”
But he had escaped to the lobby, and the stout redfaced woman evidently had no intention of pursuing him.
He forced a laugh. “Funny, wasn’t it?”
“I rather wanted to see the rest of the picture,” pouted Dorothy. She didn’t, but Tommy had to be put in his place—painlessly, if possible.
“Never mind, dear,” he said, pressing her arm so sharply that she withdrew it. “We'll see it somewhere else sometime. Now, let’s go and inspect a coffee house.”
He led Dorothy to a little place which boasted orange-shaded lamps on marble-topped tables.
“You’re an awfully good sport,” he said, as he finished ordering pastry and coffee for two. “It was rather an experience, wasn’t it?”
Dorothy smiled wanly. It might have been embarrassing if the stout woman had followed them to the street.
“That’s another thing I like about you,” he continued. “You take things pretty much as they come. If I were a young man ready to propose——”
He slackened his verbal pace and watched the effect of his words.
“-I suppose I’d ask you whether you weren’t even willing to take me pretty much as I come, but-"
“Listen, Tommy!”
Dorothy had the floor. She would let him know directly how she regarded his insinuations.
“Don’t say such things, please. I’m not interested in marriage and things like that. Don’t let’s talk about them.”
He laughed.
“Is that technique?” he inquired. “You must be pretty well hardened to proposals.”
​“I don’t enjoy them,” she said. “I don’t like to have my friends talk to me like that.”
“What do you do to young men who propose to you?”
“They don’t—I don’t want to talk about it. It breaks off friendships when things get that way.”
It struck her as a happy and tender warning and she looked at him as who should say, “I hope you understand that, once for all.”’ Tommy did.
“Oh, very good-"
Then Tommy began to speak of opera.
As he left Dorothy at 137 West 88th Street, he observed that it was a good thing that he wasn’t one of the young men who had proposed to her. But would she care to see that movie again—at some other theatre?
“I've had a lovely time tonight, Tommy. Ring me up sometime.”
“We can make it now, if you like.”
No! He might take it as a hopeful symptom.
“You'd better ring me up. Then I’ll have my datebook. Thank you so much.”
He shook her hand.
“Good night—and best luck in your singing.”
She withdrew her hand.
“Thank you so much, Tommy. Good night.”
“See you again soon—yes?”
She smiled.
Tommy blew her a kiss.
“Good night.”
Perhaps she had treated him badly. He had done much for her—and she might have let him at least hold her hand in return. But he didn’t appeal to her. She liked him in the way that she liked a well-cooked meal, but as for anything serious-! She tried to think of Tommy as her husband-ugh! And he would be a ​husband to the full extent, too! She could see why Arnold frowned when Tommy was mentioned.
Now Arnold—she wasn’t certain, but——
How slovenly Tommy would look next to Arnold. If she were married to Arnold-
As she undressed, she reflected on the matter. Arnold wouldn’t be so bad. She wondered what it would be like to have Arnold with her now. Then Tommy flashed across her thoughts. Oh! Arnold any time! She hoped that she had taught Tommy a lesson. Arnold had learned it quickly—but he wasn’t vulgar, like Tommy. Tommy was vulgar—that’s what it was. To live with a vulgar man—ugh!
Arnold was, after all, sweet. She liked the idea of a man being sweet. Of course, he might be a little more—what was it? A little more—