see whether you would rouse from
your dream of grandeur."

"YOU have been rousing me."

"No," he said. "You've roused yourself. So you may be worth helping
or, rather, worth encouraging, for no one can HELP you but yourself."

She looked at him pathetically. "But what shall I do?" she asked.
"I've got no money, no experience, no sense. I'm a vain, luxury-loving
fool, cursed with a--with a--is it a conscience?"

"I hope it's something more substantial. I hope it's common sense."

"But I have been working--honestly I have."

"Don't begin lying to yourself again."

"Don't be harsh with me."

He drew in his legs, in preparation for rising--no doubt to go away.

"I don't mean that," she cried testily. "You are not harsh with me.
It's the truth that's harsh--the truth I'm beginning to see--and feel.
I am afraid--afraid. I haven't the courage to face it."

"Why whine?" said he. "There's nothing in that."

"Do you think there's any hope for me?"

"That depends," said he.

"On what?"

"On what you want."

"I want to be a singer, a great singer."

"No, there's no hope."

She grew cold with despair. He had a way of saying a thing that gave
it the full weight of a verdict from which there was no appeal.

"Now, if you wanted to make a living," he went on, "and if you were
determined to learn to sing as well as you could, with the idea that
you might be able to make a living--why, then there might be hope."

"You think I can sing?"

"I never heard you. Can you?"

"They say I can."

"What do YOU say?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "I've never been able to judge.
Sometimes I think I'm singing well, and I find out afterward that I've
sung badly. Again, it's the other way."

"Then, obviously, what's the first thing to do?"

"To learn to judge myself," said she. "I never thought of it
before--how important that is. Do you know Jennings--Eugene Jennings?"

"The singing teacher? No."

"Is he a good teacher?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he has not taught you that you will never sing until you are
your own teacher. Because he has not taught you that singing is a
small and minor part of a career as a singer."

"But it isn't," protested she.

A long silence. Looking at him, she felt that he had dismissed her and
her affairs from his mind.

"Is it?" she said, to bring him back.

"What?" asked he vaguely.

"You said that a singer didn't have to be able to sing."

"Did I?" He