as only because I happened to be the first artist you have ever
known? If I had been a trombone player, it would have been the same; you
would have wanted to play trombone. But all the while you have been
working with such good-will, something has been struggling against me.
See, here we were, you and I and this instrument,"--he tapped the
piano,--"three good friends, working so hard. But all the while there
was something fighting us: your gift, and the woman you were meant to
be. When you find your way to that gift and to that woman, you will be
at peace. In the beginning it was an artist that you wanted to be; well,
you may be an artist, always."

Thea drew a long breath. Her hands fell in her lap. "So I'm just where I
began. No teacher, nothing done. No money."

Harsanyi turned away. "Feel no apprehension about the money, Miss
Kronborg. Come back in the fall and we shall manage that. I shall even
go to Mr. Thomas if necessary. This year will not be lost. If you but
knew what an advantage this winter's study, all your study of the piano,
will give you over most singers. Perhaps things have come out better for
you than if we had planned them knowingly."

"You mean they have IF I can sing."

Thea spoke with a heavy irony, so heavy, indeed, that it was coarse. It
grated upon Harsanyi because he felt that it was not sincere, an awkward
affectation.

He wheeled toward her. "Miss Kronborg, answer me this. YOU KNOW THAT YOU
CAN SING, do you not? You have always known it. While we worked here
together you sometimes said to yourself, 'I have something you know
nothing about; I could surprise you.' Is that also true?"

Thea nodded and hung her head.

"Why were you not frank with me? Did I not deserve it?"

She shuddered. Her bent shoulders trembled. "I don't know," she
muttered. "I didn't mean to be like that. I couldn't. I can't. It's
different."

"You mean it is very personal?" he asked kindly.

She nodded. "Not at church or funerals, or with people like Mr. Larsen.
But with you it was--personal. I'm not like you and Mrs. Harsanyi. I
come of rough people. I'm rough. But I'm independent, too. It was--all I
had. There is no use my talking, Mr. Harsanyi. I can't tell you."

"You needn't tell me. I know. Every artist knows." Harsanyi stood
looking at his pupil's back, bent as if she were pushing something, at
her lowered head. "You can sing for those people because with them you
do not commit yourself. But the realit