not so busy I might
be forced by my own giddy misconduct to take less high ground. I've
observed that the best that can be said for human nature at its best is
that it is as well behaved as its real temptations permit. He was
making you, you know. You've admitted it."

"There's no doubt about that," said Mildred.

"Mind you, I'm not excusing him. I'm simply explaining him. If your
voice had been all right--if you could have stood to any degree the
test he put you to, the test of standing alone--you'd have defeated
him. He wouldn't have dared go on. He's too shrewd to think a real
talent can be beaten."

The strong lines, the latent character, in Mildred's face were so
strongly in evidence that looking at her then no one would have thought
of her beauty or even of her sex, but only of the force that resists
all and overcomes all. "Yes--the voice," said she. "The voice."

"If it's ever reliable, come to see me. Until then--" He put out his
hand. When she gave him hers, he held it in a way that gave her no
impulse to draw back. "You know the conditions of success now. You
must prepare to meet them. If you put yourself at the mercy of the
Ransdells--or any other of the petty intriguers that beset every avenue
of success--you must take the consequences, you must conciliate them as
best you can. If you don't wish to be at their mercy, you must do your
part."

She nodded. He released her hand, opened the hall door. He said:

"Forgive my little lecture. But I like you, and I can't help having
hope of you." He smiled charmingly, his keen, inconstant eyes dimming.
"Perhaps I hope because you're young and extremely lovely and I am
pitifully susceptible. You see, you'd better go. Every man's a
Ransdell at heart where pretty women are concerned."

She did not leave the building. She went to the elevator and asked the
boy where she could find Signor Moldini. His office was the big room
on the third floor where voice candidates were usually tried out, three
days in the week. At the moment he was engaged. Mildred, seated in
the tiny anteroom, heard through the glass door a girl singing, or
trying to sing. It was a distressing performance, and Mildred wondered
that Moldini could be so tolerant as to hear her through. He came to
the door with her, thanked her profusely, told her he would let her
know whenever there was an opening "suited to your talents." As he
observed Mildred, he was still sighing and