For all this flood of geniality the singer may only smile indifferently. Secretly her hand is against all publishers. They are out for themselves. Successful singers must mind their P’s and Q’s. Payment is the word, some arrangement by which she shall receive a stated sum per week for singing a song. The honeyed phrases are well enough for beginners, but we who have succeeded need something more. “Let me show you something new. I’ve got a song here that is fine. Come right into the music-room. Charlie, get a copy of ‘She May Have Seen Better Days.’ I want you to play it over for Miss Yaeger.” The boy departs and returns. In the exclusive music-room sits the singer, critically listening while the song is played. “Isn’t that a pretty chorus?” “Well, yes, I rather like that.” “That will suit your voice exactly. Don’t ever doubt it. I think that’s one of the best songs we have published in years.” “Have you the orchestration?” “Sure; I’ll get you that.” Somehow, however, the effect has not been satisfactory. The singer has not enthused. He must try other songs and give her the orchestrations of many. Perhaps, out of all, she will sing one. That is the chance of the work. As for her point of view, she may object to the quality of anything except for that which she is paid. It is for the publisher to see whether she is worth subsidizing or not. If not, perhaps another house will see her merits in a different light. Yet she takes the songs and orchestrations along. And the publisher turning, as she goes, announces, “Gee, there’s a cold proposition for you. Get her to sing anything for you for nothing?--Nix. Not her. Cash or no song.” And he thumbs his fingers after the fashion of one who pays out money. Your male singer is often a bird of the same fine feather. If you wish to see the ideal of dressiness as exemplified by the gentlemen of the road, see these individuals arrive at the offices of the publishers. The radiance of half-hose and neckties is not outdone by the sprightliness of the suit pattern or the glint of the stone in the shirt-front. Fresh from Chicago or Buffalo they arrive, rich in self-opinion fostered by rural praise, perhaps possessed of a new droll story, always loaded with the details of the hit they made. “Well, well! You should have seen how that song went in Baltimore. I never saw anything like it. Why, it’s the hit of the season!” New songs are forthcoming, a new batch delivered for his service next year. Is he absolutely sure of the estimation in which the house holds his services? You will hear a sequel to this, not this day perhaps but a week or a month later, during his idle summer in New York. “You haven’t twenty-five handy you could let me have, have you, Pat? I’m a little short to-day.”