One bright and beautiful spring day, in late May-June, just before the final exams at Redmond, a pile of anxious letters arrived, practically flooding through Una's mailbox.
But as on this occasion Una was in the deep throes of exam-haze, the letters were delayed in being answered, mainly because Professor Sorel's students sat chained to the piano, playing through the repertoire, as Sorel watched their blunders coolly, sometimes critically with faint praise, in a pale silky peach slip, and a dark narrow skirt with tea-lenght hemline, the dark shade enhanced the translucency of her skin even more.
The direct result of this was that Mary Vance wrote Una a most hilarious letter, the contents of which were as follows.
Dear Una.
Pay no mind at all to those other letters you have received, for they are all, or most of them, from Irene Howard, who is still only a Howard.
She never got married, for Leo West ran off with Olive Kirke, about a fortnight ago.
I rene had planned everything, down to the pianist, who would have been Rosemary, except that Rosemary has broken her wrist, so that is why Irene condescended to write to you.
Of course we are here quietly pleased with Irene's misfortune, and Cornelia tells all far and wide, her own interpretation, according to which Leo West, may be wild-minded, but he is still West, and no West could tolerate Howard for the rest of his life, or words to that effect.
Of course you know what Cornelia is like.
But the main reason for this letter is this, because the summer season is coming,and that means a lot of weddings, do you know any of your fellow students who would like to come and play at a few weddings, she or he, can board somewhere, these things always work out somehow, although I think a male pianist coming would be like a cat jumping on the chickens.
With love,
Mary Vance,
Ps. I would write longer, but your namesake has spilled syrup on the floor.
Una sat in her seat in the row, pondering the contents of Mary Vance's letter vaguely, for unlike the previous spring, this year everyone on the course was allowed to follow the playing, as it added to the competition, according to Professor Bernard, who grinned contentedly, like a big plump Persian cat, as Victor Chase, who was his favorite, bowed to the audience with carefully calculated grace.
Una straightened her posture as Victor Chase began to play, Schubert's music sparkling under her skin.
Out of the corner of her eye Una noticed that Professor Sorel, was not so quiet, still, as usual, slight nervousness, or even restlessness seemed to bubble up from her, as her hands twisted as they were twined together, as those notes floated serenely onwards, but it was natural after all she did know her Schubert pieces.
At that moment Una remembered what she had once heard passing by, Simon Harquart had in a boyish, bragging way remarked to Victor Chase, in quite far-carrying tone of voice, "Do you imagine that you can make a woman any woman, even a cold Sorel melt, for the Professor is an ice sculpture, and not a woman, while I could try the ever sweetly virginal Miss Meredith."
Una had not heard what Victor Chase had said in response to that lewd rudeness, for she had turned from another street corner, towards HayCorner, as she had been running late.
And a bit later, with the scent of Shirleys custard cake and fresh scent of honeymellow Assam, Una had confessed her overhearing to Carl.
The cheerful whistle had died on her brother's lips, as Carl's face had grown serious and aged,the sharp scars of shrapnels were suddenly livid against his pallor, as he had stroked Una's cheek comfortingly, and said, with flashing eye, "I wish you had never had to hear any of that kind of rough, laddish talk, which is extremely distasteful, and not to mention ungentlemary to the extreme."
Una had nodded, for there was nothing else to say. Shirley had glanced over Una's head at Carl, with cool brown eyes.
And a couple of days later, Simon Harquart had fallen, and broken his right wrist, on the rainy street.
When eventually news of Simon Harquarts misfortune had come to Una, across Redmonds rumour mill, she had only glanced at Shirley, with slight trace of question in her eyes, but his face had revealed nothing, as ever, only cool competence, but Una remembered how once, Walter Blythe had fought for Faith's honor, with fists, against the viper-like-insults of Dan Reese, who had later died on the Western Front, somewhere in Flanders.
And a slight satisfaction twined with uneasiness flared in her heart, for why would violence be the solution, violence wasn't, and wars had already caused enough destruction.
And as for Victor Chase he had only remarked with calm poise, " That particular corner of Redmond is always so very slippery in rain, poor, poor old Simon, he really should have gotten those eye-glasses, after all."
But now, as Schubert's music pulsed and bubbled in Una's blood like warm mercury, Una began to think that perhaps Shirley wasn't the cause.
Bit later, Una noted, that on the wide steps of the Conservatory of Redmond, Professor Sorel stood in the bright sunshine, without her bright hat.
She seemed to be shivering, and as she passed Professor Sorel, Una noticed that tears were glistening on her cheeks.
Quietly Una nodded to her and inquired, "Is everything all right, Professor?"
Sorel did not seem to see Una at first, as there was a hauntingly familiar empty look in her features, but then she nodded, and said in a slightly hoarse voice, " It is the pollen, every year, there is no need to worry, Miss Meredith."
Una was startled, as she glanced at Professor Sorel once more and said, quietly, with a growing certainty in her low voice, " You are the girl, from that housefire aren't you?"
Mabel Sorel turned, and looked at Miss Meredith for a long time, that look was piercing, cutting, assessing, and then a light smile came to her lips as she murmured, " Come, Miss Meredith. Do you like cocoa, I think we have something to talk about, there's no need to worry."
Pink apple blossoms swayed in a nearby apple tree, they smelled faintly, of summer.