upon one last appeal on behalf of the clever
and lovely and so amiable victim of Brent's mania.

"I say, Mr. Brent," pleaded he, "don't you think--Really now,
if you'll permit a chap not without experience to say
so--Don't you think that by drilling her so much and so--so
_beastly_ minutely--you're making her wooden--machine-like?"

"I hope so," said Brent, in a tone that sent Streathern
scurrying away to a place where he could express himself
unseen and unheard.

In her fifth week she began to improve. She felt at home on
the stage; she felt at home in her part, whatever it happened
to be. She was giving what could really be called a
performance. Streathern, when he was sure Brent could not
hear, congratulated her. "It's wonderfully plucky of you, my
dear," said he, "quite amazingly plucky--to get yourself
together and go straight ahead, in spite of what your American
friend has been doing to you."

"In spite of it." cried Susan. "Why, don't you see that it's
because of what he's been doing? I felt it, all the time. I
see it now."

"Oh, really--do you think so?" said Streathern.

His tone made it a polite and extremely discreet way of
telling her he thought she had become as mad as Brent. She
did not try to explain to him why she was improving. In that
week she advanced by long strides, and Brent was radiant.

"Now we'll teach you scales," said he. "We'll teach you the
mechanics of expressing every variety of emotion. Then we'll
be ready to study a strong part."

She had known in the broad from the outset what Brent was
trying to accomplish--that he was giving her the trade side of
the art, was giving it to her quickly and systematically. But
she did not appreciate how profoundly right he was until she
was "learning scales." Then she understood why most so called
"professional" performances are amateurish, haphazard, without
any precision. She was learning to posture, and to utter
every emotion so accurately that any spectator would recognize
it at once.

"And in time your voice and your body," said Brent, "will
become as much your servants as are Paderewski's ten fingers.
He doesn't rely upon any such rot as inspiration. Nor does
any master of any art. A mind can be inspired but not a body.
It must be taught. You must first have a perfect instrument.
Then, if you are a genius, your genius, having a perfect
instrument to work with, will produce perfect results. To
ignore or to neglec