aces. All Mildred learned was
that Jennings did not give up paying pupils. She had not confidence
enough in this discovery to put it to the test. She did not dare
disobey him or shirk--even when she was most disposed to do so. But
gradually she ceased from that intense application she had at first
brought to her work. She kept up the forms. She learned her lessons.
She did all that was asked. She seemed to be toiling as in the
beginning. In reality, she became by the middle of spring a mere
lesson-taker. Her interest in clothes and in going about revived. She
saw in the newspapers that General Siddall had taken a party of friends
on a yachting trip around the world, so she felt that she was no longer
being searched for, at least not vigorously. She became acquainted
with smart, rich West Side women, taking lessons at Jennings's. She
amused herself going about with them and with the "musical" men they
attracted--amateur and semi-professional singers and players upon
instruments. She drew Mrs. Brindley into their society. They had
little parties at the flat in Fifty-ninth Street--the most delightful
little parties imaginable--dinners and suppers, music, clever
conversations, flirtations of a harmless but fascinating kind. If
anyone had accused Mildred of neglecting her work, of forgetting her
career, she would have grown indignant, and if Mrs. Brindley had
overheard, she would have been indignant for her. Mildred worked as
much as ever. She was making excellent progress. She was doing all
that could be done. It takes time to develop a voice, to make an
opera-singer. Forcing is dangerous, when it is not downright useless.

In May--toward the end of the month--Stanley Baird returned. Mildred,
who happened to be in unusually good voice that day, sang for him at
the Jennings studio, and he was enchanted. As the last note died away
he cried out to Jennings:

"She's a wonder, isn't she?"

Jennings nodded. "She's got a voice," said he.

"She ought to go on next year."

"Not quite that," said Jennings. "We want to get that upper register
right first. And it's a young voice--she's very young for her age. We
must be careful not to strain it."

"Why, what's a voice for if not to sing with?" said Stanley.

"A fine voice is a very delicate instrument," replied the teacher. He
added coldly, "You must let me judge as to what shall be done."

"Certainly, certainly," said Stanley in haste.

"She's had several