o self-excuse, please," interrupted he. "Cigarettes, champagne, all
kinds of foolish food, an impaired digestion--that's the truth, and you
know it."

"I've got splendid digestion! I can eat anything!" she cried. "Oh,
you don't know the first thing about singing. You don't know about
temperament, about art, about all the things that singing really means."

"We were talking of careers," said he. "A career means a person who
can be relied upon to do what is demanded of him. A singer's career
means a powerful body, perfect health, a sound digestion. Without
them, the voice will not be reliable. What you need is not singing
teachers, but teachers of athletics and of hygiene. To hear you talk
about a career is like listening to a child. You think you can become
a professional singer by paying money to a teacher. There are lawyers
and doctors and business men in all lines who think that way about
their professions--that learning a little routine of technical
knowledge makes a lawyer or a doctor or a merchant or a financier."

"Tell me--WHAT ought I to learn?"

"Learn to think--and to persist. Learn to concentrate. Learn to make
sacrifices. Learn to handle yourself as a great painter handles his
brush and colors. Then perhaps you'll make a career as a singer. If
not, it'll be a career as something or other."

She was watching him with a wistful, puzzled expression. "Could I ever
do all that?"

"Anyone could, by working away at it every day. If you gain only one
inch a day, in a year you'll have gained three hundred and sixty-five
inches. And if you gain an inch a day for a while and hold it, you
soon begin to gain a foot a day. But there's no need to worry about
that." He was gazing at her now with an expression of animation that
showed how feverishly alive he was behind that mask of calmness. "The
day's work--that's the story of success. Do the day's work
persistently, thoroughly, intelligently. Never mind about to-morrow.
Thinking of it means dreaming or despairing--both futilities. Just the
day's work."

"I begin to understand," she said thoughtfully. "You are right. I've
done nothing. Oh, I've been a fool--more foolish even than I thought."

A long silence, then she said, somewhat embarrassed and in a low voice,
though there was no danger of those in front of them hearing:

"I want you to know that there has been nothing wrong--between Stanley
and me."

"Do you wish me to put that to your