rushed
sleekly back chewed gum incessantly while he practiced picture
accompaniments. The place looked desolate, with its empty seats, its
bald stage front with the empty picture screen. Stella sat down to wait
for the manager. He came in a few minutes; his manner was very curt,
business-like. He wanted her to sing a popular song, a bit from a Verdi
opera, Gounod's Ave Maria, so that he could get a line on what she
could do. He appeared to be a pessimist in regard to singers.

"Take the stage right there," he instructed. "Just as if the spot was on
you. Now then."

It wasn't a heartening process to stand there facing the gum-chewing
pianist, and the manager's cigar glowing redly five rows back, and the
silent emptinesses beyond,--much like singing into the mouth of a gloomy
cave. It was more or less a critical moment for Stella. But she was
keenly aware that she had to make good in a small way before she could
grasp the greater opportunity, so she did her best, and her best was no
mediocre performance. She had never sung in a place designed to show
off--or to show up--a singer's quality. She was even a bit astonished
herself.

She elected to sing the Ave Maria first. Her voice went pealing to the
domed ceiling as sweet as a silver bell, resonant as a trumpet. When the
last note died away, there was a momentary silence. Then the accompanist
looked up at her, frankly admiring.

"You're _some_ warbler," he said emphatically, "believe _me_."

Behind him the manager's cigar lost its glow. He remained silent. The
pianist struck up "Let's Murder Care," a rollicking trifle from a
Broadway hit. Last of all he thumped, more or less successfully, through
the accompaniment to an aria that had in it vocal gymnastics as well as
melody.

"Come up to the office, Mrs. Fyfe," Howard said, with a singular change
from his first manner.

"I can give you an indefinite engagement at thirty a week," he made a
blunt offer. "You can sing. You're worth more, but right now I can't pay
more. If you pull business,--and I rather think you will,--have to sing
twice in the afternoon and twice in the evening."

Stella considered briefly. Thirty dollars a week meant a great deal more
than mere living, as she meant to live. And it was a start, a move in
the right direction. She accepted; they discussed certain details. She
did not care to court publicity under her legal name, so they agreed
that she should be billed as Madame Benton,--the Madame