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“So be careful who you call a traitor to art,” said Gino. He lifted his glass in a toast to an imaginary audience. “Last year I gave ten thousand dollars to the Civic Opera Association.”

“Ten thousand.”

“Peanuts,” said Gino.

The din of Nicky’s singing filled the apartment courtyard. He was alone now, having said farewell to his guests.

“Exit George B. Jeffrey, enter Nicky Marino,” whispered Gino.

Nicky thrust his head through the doorway. “Spring, men! Earth is being reborn!”

“How’s business, Nicky?” said Gino.

“Business! Who cares about business? Six more months, Maestro, and the hell with it.” He winked and left.

“Ten thousand dollars is peanuts, Gino?” I said.

“Peanuts,” said Gino grandly. “Peanuts for the half owner of the world’s fastest-growing doughnut chain. Six more months, did he say? In six more months he and doughnuts will probably do as much for opera as his father ever did. Someday, maybe I’ll tell him about it.” He shook his head. “No, no—that would spoil everything, wouldn’t it? No—I guess the whole rest of his life had better be an interlude between the promises his mother made him about himself and the moment when he’ll make them all come true.”

MONEY TALKS

Cape Cod was in a cocoon of cooling water and autumn mists. It was seven in the evening. The only lights that shone on Harbor Road came from the dancing flashlight of a watchman in the boatyard, from Ben Nickelson’s grocery store, and from the headlights of a big, black, Cadillac sedan.

The Cadillac stopped in front of Ben’s store. The well-bred thunder of its engine died. A young woman in a cheap cloth coat got out and went into the store. She was blooming with health and youth and the nip in the air, but very shy. Every step seemed to be an apology.

Ben’s shaggy head was on his folded arms by the cash register. His ambition had run down. At twenty-seven, Ben was through. He’d lost his store to his creditors.

Ben raised his head and smiled without hope. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Her reply was a whisper.

“How’s that?” said Ben. “I didn’t hear.”

“Could you kindly tell me how to get to the Kilraine cottage?” she said.

“Cottage?” said Ben.

“That is what they call it, isn’t it?” she said. “That’s what it says on the key tags.”

“That’s what they call it, all right,” said Ben. “I just never got used to it. Maybe that was a cottage to Joel Kilraine. I never saw what else he had to live in.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “Is it great big?”

“Nineteen rooms, a half mile of private beach, tennis courts, a swimming pool,” said Ben. “No stables, though. Maybe that’s why they call it a cottage.”

She sighed. “I’d hoped it would be a sweet, cozy little thing.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Ben. “What you do to get there is turn around, and go back the way you came, until you come to a—” He paused. “You don’t know the village at all?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s awful hard to describe,” said Ben. “It’s kind of hidden away. I’d better lead you there with my truck.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” she said.

“I’m closing up in a minute anyway,” said Ben. “Haven’t anything else to do.”

“I’ll need some groceries first,” she said.

“My creditors will be very happy,” said Ben. Loneliness and futility swept over him, and he looked the girl up and down. From her hands he learned she was a nail-biter. From her low-heeled, blocky white shoes, he gathered that she was some kind of servant, usually in uniform. He thought she was pretty, but he didn’t like her for being so cowed.

“What are you—her housekeeper or something?” said Ben. “She send you up to find out what she’s got here?”

“Who?” she said.

“The nurse—the Cinderella girl—the one who got the whole shebang,” said Ben. “The girl with the million-dollar alcohol rubs. What’s her name? Rose? Rose something?”

“Oh,” she said. She nodded. “That’s what I’m doing.” She looked away from Ben to the shelves behind him. “Let’s see—I’d like a can of beef-noodle soup, a can of tomato … a box of cornflakes … a loaf