"I was about to add," continued Gay, "that my opera shall have no music except the good old ballad tunes. She crept into the living room and turned off the set, adjusting Cathy’s blanket which had fallen to the carpeted floor. I thought you might like to see. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. "We've no time for any Bedlam scenes now. But let that verse tell my secret. " After all those former bitter failures, this cup was sweet, even if there was the flavour of irony.
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