closely at Ileen to see if Bud had overdone his frankness,
but her pleased smile and sweetly spoken thanks assured me that we
were on the right track.

"And what do you think, Mr. Jacks?" she asked next.

"Take it from me," said Jacks, "you ain't in the prima donna class.
I've heard 'em warble in every city in the United States; and I tell
you your vocal output don't go. Otherwise, you've got the grand
opera bunch sent to the soap factory--in looks, I mean; for the high
screechers generally look like Mary Ann on her Thursday out. But nix
for the gargle work. Your epiglottis ain't a real side-stepper--its
footwork ain't good."

With a merry laugh at Jacks' criticism, Ileen looked inquiringly at
me.

I admit that I faltered a little. Was there not such a thing as being
too frank? Perhaps I even hedged a little in my verdict; but I stayed
with the critics.

"I am not skilled in scientific music, Miss Ileen," I said, "but,
frankly, I cannot praise very highly the singing-voice that Nature has
given you. It has long been a favorite comparison that a great singer
sings like a bird. Well, there are birds and birds. I would say that
your voice reminds me of the thrush's--throaty and not strong, nor of
much compass or variety--but still--er--sweet--in--er--its--way, and--
er--"

"Thank you, Mr. Harris," interrupted Miss Hinkle. "I knew I could
depend upon your frankness and honesty."

And then C. Vincent Vesey drew back one sleeve from his snowy cuff,
and the water came down at Lodore.

My memory cannot do justice to his masterly tribute to that priceless,
God-given treasure--Miss Hinkle's voice. He raved over it in terms
that, if they had been addressed to the morning stars when they sang
together, would have made that stellar choir explode in a meteoric
shower of flaming self-satisfaction.

He marshalled on his white finger-tips the grand opera stars of all
the continents, from Jenny Lind to Emma Abbott, only to depreciate
their endowments. He spoke of larynxes, of chest notes, of phrasing,
arpeggios, and other strange paraphernalia of the throaty art. He
admitted, as though driven to a corner, that Jenny Lind had a note or
two in the high register that Miss Hinkle had not yet acquired--but--
"!!!"--that was a mere matter of practice and training.

And, as a peroration, he predicted--solemnly predicted--a career in
vocal art for the "coming star of the Southwest--and one of which
grand old Texas may well be prou