bad manners which he would never have tolerated in anyone else.
Sure of herself—sure of Owen. That seemed to add up to just one thing—an understanding of some sort that sooner or later could lead to marriage.
Mrs. Mayberry tried to reassure herself by dwelling on the belief that whatever plans Marion might be making, it would be Owen who decided whether he asked her to marry him or not.
It was not an entirely satisfactory conclusion for, unlike Bertha, she was not at all sure that Owen was in love with the beautiful singer. Not, of course, that everyone felt love to be an essential ingredient of marriage. Some people seemed to get on quite well without it.
“But I do so want the very best for the boy,” Mrs. Mayberry thought sadly. “Yet I can’t help him. It’s the sort of thing people have to work out for themselves— and stand by the results. Besides, Owen would resent interference even from me. It might even drive him—” she sighed deeply.
No, Owen might be heading for disaster, but there was nothing she could do about it except wait and hope.
CHAPTER IV
MRS. MAYBERRY was quite right in thinking that Marion fully intended to marry Owen. Not that she was in love with him, although apart from his boringly serious outlook on life, she liked him well enough.
But despite her somewhat exotic appearance, Marion was essentially practical. She had every reason to be, since before Owen had set her feet on the path of fame she had known what it meant to count every penny.
She was one of a large family and her parents had not been able to afford to give her a specialised education of any sort—not, as Marion admitted in her franker moments, that she had sufficient brains to have taken advantage of it if they had. As a result she had never been able to command more than a very mediocre salary doing jobs which held no future at all.
To the possibility of earning a living by singing she had never given a thought. It was simply a useful little amateur talent which had enabled her to enjoy a limited loyal popularity. And then, on one never-to-be- forgotten Saturday evening at the conclusion of a charity concert, Owen, escorted by a greatly flurried producer, had come backstage to make her an astounding offer.
He had liked her voice. He thought it had possibilities. If she would come to his office the following Monday he would give her an audition.
Marion went—having first taken the precaution of ringing up the office where she worked to say that she would not be in as she had a bad headache. No use throwing away one job before getting another.
She had been greatly impressed by what, to her, was the magnificence of Owen’s office, but not in the least overawed by it. After all, if he could afford such luxury he must be a successful man, and successful men don’t make mistakes. Consequently, if he said her voice was good he knew what he was talking about.
All the same, she was completely taken aback at the offer he made when the audition was over. It was nothing less than that he was willing not only to pay for her voice to be properly trained but also to make her an allowance during that time so that she could give all her mind to her training.
Marion had blurted out one word:
“Why?”
“Because, I believe you have what could be a truly beautiful voice,” he had explained patiently. “And because music of all sorts is not only my means of earning a livelihood. It is also my greatest interest in life.”
“I still don’t see why you should pay for me,” Marion had told him suspiciously. In her experience there was no such thing as disinterested kindness— particularly where men were concerned. “What do you get out of it?”
“A very real satisfaction,” Owen had told her promptly. And then, seeing how completely blank she looked: “Can’t you understand that feeling as I do about music, I feel literally compelled to help anyone I can if I think they can add to the beauty of the
Sure of herself—sure of Owen. That seemed to add up to just one thing—an understanding of some sort that sooner or later could lead to marriage.
Mrs. Mayberry tried to reassure herself by dwelling on the belief that whatever plans Marion might be making, it would be Owen who decided whether he asked her to marry him or not.
It was not an entirely satisfactory conclusion for, unlike Bertha, she was not at all sure that Owen was in love with the beautiful singer. Not, of course, that everyone felt love to be an essential ingredient of marriage. Some people seemed to get on quite well without it.
“But I do so want the very best for the boy,” Mrs. Mayberry thought sadly. “Yet I can’t help him. It’s the sort of thing people have to work out for themselves— and stand by the results. Besides, Owen would resent interference even from me. It might even drive him—” she sighed deeply.
No, Owen might be heading for disaster, but there was nothing she could do about it except wait and hope.
CHAPTER IV
MRS. MAYBERRY was quite right in thinking that Marion fully intended to marry Owen. Not that she was in love with him, although apart from his boringly serious outlook on life, she liked him well enough.
But despite her somewhat exotic appearance, Marion was essentially practical. She had every reason to be, since before Owen had set her feet on the path of fame she had known what it meant to count every penny.
She was one of a large family and her parents had not been able to afford to give her a specialised education of any sort—not, as Marion admitted in her franker moments, that she had sufficient brains to have taken advantage of it if they had. As a result she had never been able to command more than a very mediocre salary doing jobs which held no future at all.
To the possibility of earning a living by singing she had never given a thought. It was simply a useful little amateur talent which had enabled her to enjoy a limited loyal popularity. And then, on one never-to-be- forgotten Saturday evening at the conclusion of a charity concert, Owen, escorted by a greatly flurried producer, had come backstage to make her an astounding offer.
He had liked her voice. He thought it had possibilities. If she would come to his office the following Monday he would give her an audition.
Marion went—having first taken the precaution of ringing up the office where she worked to say that she would not be in as she had a bad headache. No use throwing away one job before getting another.
She had been greatly impressed by what, to her, was the magnificence of Owen’s office, but not in the least overawed by it. After all, if he could afford such luxury he must be a successful man, and successful men don’t make mistakes. Consequently, if he said her voice was good he knew what he was talking about.
All the same, she was completely taken aback at the offer he made when the audition was over. It was nothing less than that he was willing not only to pay for her voice to be properly trained but also to make her an allowance during that time so that she could give all her mind to her training.
Marion had blurted out one word:
“Why?”
“Because, I believe you have what could be a truly beautiful voice,” he had explained patiently. “And because music of all sorts is not only my means of earning a livelihood. It is also my greatest interest in life.”
“I still don’t see why you should pay for me,” Marion had told him suspiciously. In her experience there was no such thing as disinterested kindness— particularly where men were concerned. “What do you get out of it?”
“A very real satisfaction,” Owen had told her promptly. And then, seeing how completely blank she looked: “Can’t you understand that feeling as I do about music, I feel literally compelled to help anyone I can if I think they can add to the beauty of the
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