“It’s a secret,” Miss Clergy added childishly. “Don’t give me away. Most girls have to study for years and go abroad, but Mr. Hobart wants to prove that an American trained girl can be as great a prima donna as one who enters the stage by way of Vienna or Paris. Come back, Thurley, I want to tell you something.” She held out her arms as stiltedly as a marionette. Thurley obeyed. “I want you to be happy because you will be both rich and famous. Isn’t that enough?” Her bright eyes peered into Thurley’s face. “You mean because I’ll keep my vow to you about not marrying—and I ought to be satisfied to have the other things?” “Maybe so. I’m a queer old woman and I choose to live the rest of my queer old life as I please. But I saved you from the terrible, but common fate—marrying a small-town bully and being a faded drudge. We’ll leave that for the minister’s daughter.” “But Dan would never marry Lorraine—why—” Thurley paused. She was remembering the day Lorraine had brought her the embroidered set. How very sweet was Betsey Pilrig’s garden, far sweeter than the imported scent they had her use! How lovely and peaceful were the green fields which stretched as far as eye could see ... not tall, dirty buildings with myriads of shaded windows, each concealing some human being with woes and longings greater than her own! How lovely was the old box-car, the first home the girl had known! She had worn pink linen that day Lorraine came! She had paid for it by extra lessons given in South Wales, and Dan had sent her the sash for a surprise. How simple but how sane it all had been! She glanced at her blue velvet frock trimmed with moleskin—“so ultra,” they murmured when they fitted it. Perhaps this was the better way. Miss Clergy caught the drift of her thoughts and the withered hand closed firmly over Thurley’s. “If he did marry her, you’d be glad to dance at the wedding, wouldn’t you?” she insisted. The actress in Thurley rescued her so that she could say, “Of course, that’s all left behind. No use being like a story-book girl unless you have a s-story-book heart. Now it’s time for Mr. Hobart’s lesson, _mia_, so I’m off. I wish you’d let me walk sometimes or take a subway! I’m tired of being whirled away in taxis! Why, I haven’t even had a moment alone at Grant’s Tomb,” laughing in spite of herself. Miss Clergy smiled. “I’m so proud of you!” she declared. “If I had only found you years ago—” “I tried to find you,” Thurley reminded. “Ah, but you didn’t sing that day! If you had, everything would have changed for us both. When you sing, Thurley, the world is yours—” Thurley was at the mirror fitting on a high black hat with a bunch of old-blue plumes. “Do you think any one would love me, if I could not sing?” she demanded impetuously. Miss Clergy became confused. “Dear me, Thurley, I cannot think of you as separate from your voice. There would be no Thurley if there were no Thurley voice.”