“But, my dear woman, if in another twelve years you are an operatic star of some magnitude you’ll be able to do much more for your daughter than you could with what you’ll save as a provincial actress between now and then. But forgive me; you speak of a little girl. You have a husband then?” “My husband is dead. He died nearly four years ago.” Kenrick nodded slowly. “And—forgive my bluntness—you have no other entanglements?” She flushed. “My marriage was never an entanglement ... and if you mean ‘am I in love with anybody now?’ why, no, I could never love anybody again.” “That’s a sad remark for twenty-eight. A woman’s _grande passion_ usually happens when she is thirty-three.” “Mine won’t,” said Nancy obstinately. “I shouldn’t dare the God of Love,” Kenrick warned her. “Remember, he’s a mischievous boy and nothing gives him greater delight than to behave as such. Never dare a boy to climb an apple-tree or Cupid to shoot his arrows in vain. You offered him a fine target by that remark of yours. But don’t let’s begin an argument about love. It’s your voice I want to talk about. Surely you must realise that you possess a contralto of the finest quality?” “I thought it was a fairly good natural voice,” Nancy admitted. “But I certainly never supposed it was of the finest quality.” “Not only have you a marvellous voice, but you can act. Very few contraltos can act. On the operatic stage they usually sound like governesses who have drunk a little too much at a fancy-dress ball.” “Rather voluptuous governesses usually,” Nancy laughed. “Yes, but with the healthy voluptuousness of women who have been eating plenty of the best butter and drinking quarts of the richest cream. You would be different.” “I hate to be rude,” Nancy said. “But do you know, it always seems to me such a waste of time to talk about impossibilities. Perhaps I’ve no imagination. I’ll talk as long and as earnestly as you like about the best way of travelling from one town to another, or of any of life’s small problems, but to discuss which seaside resort in the moon would be the jolliest place to spend one’s holidays surely isn’t worth while.” “But why is your appearance in opera so remote from any prospect of being realised?”