"I'd like to see it," said Mildred.

"I'll try to find it. But I'm afraid I can't. I haven't seen it since
I showed it to Keith, and when I hunted for it the other day, it didn't
turn up. I've changed valets several times in the last six months--"

But Mildred had ceased listening. Keith had seen the picture, had
called it a "give away," had been interested in it--and the picture had
disappeared. She laughed at her own folly, yet she was glad Stanley
had given her this chance to make up a silly day-dream. She waited
until he had exhausted himself on the subject of valets, their
drunkenness, their thievish habits, their incompetence, then she said:

"I took my last lesson from Jennings to-day."

"What's the matter? Do you want to change? You didn't say anything
about it? Isn't he good?"

"Good enough. But I've discovered that my voice isn't reliable, and
unless one has a reliable voice there's no chance for a grand-opera
career--or for comic opera, either."

Stanley was straightway all agitation and protest. "Who put that notion
in your head? There's nothing in it, Mildred. Jennings is crazy about
your voice, and he knows."

"Jennings is after the money," replied Mildred. "What I'm saying is the
truth. Stanley, our beautiful dream of a career has winked out."

His expression was most revealing.

"And," she went on, "I'm not going to take any more of your money--and,
of course, I'll pay back what I've borrowed when I can"--she
smiled--"which may not be very soon."

"What's all this about, anyhow?" demanded he. "I don't see any sign of
it in your face. You wouldn't take it so coolly if it were so."

"I don't understand why I'm not wringing my hands and weeping," replied
she. "Every few minutes I tell myself that I ought to be. But I stay
quite calm. I suppose I'm--sort of stupefied."

"Do you really mean that you've given up?" cried he.

"It's no use to waste the money, Stanley. I've got the voice, and
that's what deceived us all. But there's nothing BEHIND the voice.
With a great singer the greatness is in what's behind the voice, not in
the voice itself."

"I don't believe a word of it," cried he violently. "You've been
discouraged by a little cold. Everybody has colds. Why, in this
climate the colds are always getting the Metropolitan singers down."

"But they've got strong throats, and my throat's delicate."

"You must go to a better climate. You ought to be abroad, anyhow. That