"I hope it's something more substantial. I hope it's common sense." "But I have been working--honestly I have." "Don't begin lying to yourself again." "Don't be harsh with me." He drew in his legs, in preparation for rising--no doubt to go away. "I don't mean that," she cried testily. "You are not harsh with me. It's the truth that's harsh--the truth I'm beginning to see--and feel. I am afraid--afraid. I haven't the courage to face it." "Why whine?" said he. "There's nothing in that." "Do you think there's any hope for me?" "That depends," said he. "On what?" "On what you want." "I want to be a singer, a great singer." "No, there's no hope." She grew cold with despair. He had a way of saying a thing that gave it the full weight of a verdict from which there was no appeal. "Now, if you wanted to make a living," he went on, "and if you were determined to learn to sing as well as you could, with the idea that you might be able to make a living--why, then there might be hope." "You think I can sing?" "I never heard you. Can you?" "They say I can." "What do YOU say?" "I don't know," she confessed. "I've never been able to judge. Sometimes I think I'm singing well, and I find out afterward that I've sung badly. Again, it's the other way." "Then, obviously, what's the first thing to do?" "To learn to judge myself," said she. "I never thought of it before--how important that is. Do you know Jennings--Eugene Jennings?" "The singing teacher? No." "Is he a good teacher?" "No." "Why not?" "Because he has not taught you that you will never sing until you are your own teacher. Because he has not taught you that singing is a small and minor part of a career as a singer." "But it isn't," protested she. A long silence. Looking at him, she felt that he had dismissed her and her affairs from his mind. "Is it?" she said, to bring him back. "What?" asked he vaguely. "You said that a singer didn't have to be able to sing." "Did I?" He glanced down the shore toward the house. "It feels like lunch-time." He rose. "What did you mean by what you said?" "When you have thought about your case a while longer, we'll talk of it again--if you wish. But until you've thought, talking is a waste of time." She rose, stood staring out to sea. He was observing her, a faint smile about his lips. He said: "Why bother about a career? After all, kept woman is a thoroughly respectable occupation--or can be made so by any preacher or justice of the peace. It's followed by many of our best women--those who pride themselves on their high characters--and on their pride." "I could not belong to a man unless I cared for him," said she. "I tried it once. I shall never do it again." "That sounds fine," said he. "Let's go to lunch." "You don't believe me?" "Do you?"