“Find that out for yourself! Sometimes—sometimes not. Now tell me, where were you born and educated and are you engaged to half a dozen lads in Birge’s Backyard or wherever it is? And why do you want to be an opera singer, and what has led you to fancy you could be? Is it because Miss Clergy has advanced you money? Before you answer, let me add that money does not keep you in grand opera or any other art work. I’m not saying that occasionally it does not get you in, although not as often as envious laymen like to imagine. But it cannot keep you on the stage or in the hearts of the people unless you merit the so doing. You must use your brain, as well as sing. You may have the voice of angels and yet fail on the operatic or dramatic stage. You may have the angelic voice and heavenly beauty and celestial gowns—and still be registered as zero, unless you use your brain. You must employ intellect, wit, sincerity, industry, the same as if you were building a house or cooking a meal or raising a family. A mediocre singer with brains can always surpass naturally endowed, but mentally sluggish, singers. Remember that!” He leaned back in his chair and his gray eyes narrowed somewhat; the dimples in his chin vanished and with them the good-natured, kindly expression. As if she were pleading with a judge, Thurley, who all in an instant swept from her savage little self everything she had fancied she believed, found herself beginning with admirable logic, “I was born in Thurley, Idaho, so they named me Thurley. Just think—if I hadn’t been born until the next day, it would have been Hoskins, Idaho! So far luck was with me!” Half an hour later she ended with, “I shall never go back to the Corners, and I shall pay Miss Clergy for all she is doing, no matter if she has no need of the money. And I shall never marry any one! You see that was my one promise to Miss Clergy. At least not for twenty years, she said, because by that time she would be dead and could haunt me if I went to behaving foolishly.” Hobart smiled at her as genially as he had smiled at Miss Clergy, remarking, “Ah, the _de luxe_ Topsy, I take it! I much prefer a Topsy prospect to a Little Eva prospect with a myriad of interested relations who feel certain I cannot comprehend the wonderful way their Little Eva sings ‘Madame Butterfly,’ proving it with clippings from the music column of the Standing Stone _Gazette_! After all, no one is really interested in _you_. I take it Miss Clergy is keen on seeing you cheat a man of love; isn’t that it?” “Yes,” loneliness swept over Thurley for the instant, “I don’t suppose any one really cares about me, because the people who did care I ran away and left.” She caught her underlip quickly.