amicably. "We know that Thayer's voice is beyond all odds the best we
have heard for a three years. How do you do it, Thayer? You look as calm
as a Dutch dolly; but you manage to tear us all to bits. Even I felt
sanctified at your recital, and Miss Van Osdel's lashes were freighted
with unshed tears."

"That must be one of your next week's scareheads," she objected. "I
never cry in public where there are electric lights, Mr. Thayer; it's
horribly unbecoming to most women. But I did have to say a nonsense
rhyme over to myself, to keep steady."

"Yes, I taught you that trick," Beatrix asserted suddenly. "Lear is very
soothing in an emotional crisis. _The Rubaiyat_ for gooseflesh and Lear
for tears is my rule. _The Jumblies_ carried me safely through the fifth
act of _Cyrano_. But go on, Bobby. We are nearly ready to change the
subject."

"Now take that recital of yours," Bobby pursued meditatively. "You were
there to interpret Schubert and Franz and those fellows; but nobody is
talking about Schubert and Franz, to-day. It is all Thayer, Cotton
Mather Thayer, Baritone. It's all right enough. You did them awfully
well; but there's the Them in the background, and it's not decent to
forget Them."

Thayer laughed good-naturedly. It was impossible to take offence at the
mock seriousness of Bobby's harangue. Furthermore, it held its own grain
of truth, even though the grain was buried in an infinite amount of
chaff.

"I do occasionally remember that there was a composer," he suggested;
"and, in case of the dead ones, you need somebody to sing them."

"Ye-es," Bobby replied grudgingly; "and in case of the live ones, too,
sometimes. I have an idea that you make a good deal better noise out of
it than most of these old duffers would do. It is only that you take all
the glory for the whole business. The newsboys on the street corners
have no right to take the credit for my scareheads."

"They are a self-respecting race, Bobby; they don't want to."

"How unkind of you, Sally! But the cases are analogous. And my final
point, aside from professional jealousy, is the economy of time. You
grub longer over learning to sing a song than it takes the composer to
write it, and, when you're through, you've only reproduced somebody
else's ideas. Why can't you be original? Next time you feel musically
inclined, just say to yourself, 'Go to, now! Let us create!' It won't
take a bit longer, and really it's not hard to do. I know, becaus