eauty. "If I could only get started I'd go to
the devil, laughing and dancing--and taking a train with me."

"You ARE started," said he, with an amiable smile. "Keep on. But I
doubt if you'll be so well amused as you may imagine. Going to the
devil isn't as it's painted in novels by homely old maids and by men
too timid to go out of nights. A few steps farther, and your
disillusionment will begin. But there'll be no turning back. Already,
you are almost too old to make a career."

"I'm only twenty-four. I flattered myself I looked still younger."

"It's worse than I thought," said he. "Most of the singers, even the
second-rate ones, began at fifteen--began seriously. And you haven't
begun yet."

"That's unjust," she protested. "I've done a little. Many great people
would think it a great deal."

"You haven't begun yet," repeated he calmly. "You have spent a lot of
money, and have done a lot of dreaming and talking and listening to
compliments, and have taken a lot of lessons of an expensive charlatan.
But what have those things to do with a career?"

"You've never heard me sing."

"I do not care for singing."

"Oh!" said she in a tone of relief. "Then you know nothing about all
this."

"On the contrary, I know everything about a career. And we were talking
of careers, not of singing."

"You mean that my voice is worthless because I haven't the other
elements?"

"What else could I have meant?" said he. "You haven't the strength.
You haven't the health."

She laughed as she straightened herself. "Do I look weak and sickly?"
cried she.

"For the purposes of a career as a female you are strong and well,"
said he. "For the purpose of a career as a singer--" He smiled and
shook his head. "A singer must have muscles like wire ropes, like a
blacksmith or a washerwoman. The other day we were climbing a hill--a
not very steep hill. You stopped five times for breath, and twice you
sat down to rest."

She was literally hanging her head with shame. "I wasn't very well
that day," she murmured.

"Don't deceive yourself," said he. "Don't indulge in the fatal folly
of self-excuse."

"Go on," she said humbly. "I want to hear it all."

"Is your throat sore to-day?" pursued he.

She colored. "It's better," she murmured.

"A singer with sore throat!" mocked he. "You've had a slight fogginess
of the voice all summer."

"It's this sea air," she eagerly protested. "It affects everyone."

"N