ut if she
achieved, it would be nothing common. There are people whom one can
trust for that. There is one way in which they will never fail."
Harsanyi retired into his own reflections.

After the second act Fred Ottenburg brought Archie to the Harsanyis' box
and introduced him as an old friend of Miss Kronborg. The head of a
musical publishing house joined them, bringing with him a journalist and
the president of a German singing society. The conversation was chiefly
about the new SIEGLINDE. Mrs. Harsanyi was gracious and enthusiastic,
her husband nervous and uncommunicative. He smiled mechanically, and
politely answered questions addressed to him. "Yes, quite so." "Oh,
certainly." Every one, of course, said very usual things with great
conviction. Mrs. Harsanyi was used to hearing and uttering the
commonplaces which such occasions demanded. When her husband withdrew
into the shadow, she covered his retreat by her sympathy and cordiality.
In reply to a direct question from Ottenburg, Harsanyi said, flinching,
"ISOLDE? Yes, why not? She will sing all the great roles, I should
think."

The chorus director said something about "dramatic temperament." The
journalist insisted that it was "explosive force," "projecting power."

Ottenburg turned to Harsanyi. "What is it, Mr. Harsanyi? Miss Kronborg
says if there is anything in her, you are the man who can say what it
is."

The journalist scented copy and was eager. "Yes, Harsanyi. You know all
about her. What's her secret?"

Harsanyi rumpled his hair irritably and shrugged his shoulders. "Her
secret? It is every artist's secret,"--he waved his hand,--"passion.
That is all. It is an open secret, and perfectly safe. Like heroism, it
is inimitable in cheap materials."

The lights went out. Fred and Archie left the box as the second act came
on.

Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the
sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy;
only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is. That
afternoon nothing new came to Thea Kronborg, no enlightenment, no
inspiration. She merely came into full possession of things she had been
refining and perfecting for so long. Her inhibitions chanced to be fewer
than usual, and, within herself, she entered into the inheritance that
she herself had laid up, into the fullness of the faith she had kept
before she knew its name or its meaning.

Often when she sang, the best she