"This half-hour of your time is mine, is it not?" said she quietly. "Let's not waste any of it. Yesterday you told me that I could not hope to make a career because my voice is unreliable. Why is it unreliable?" "Because you have a delicate throat," replied he, yielding at once where he instinctively knew he could not win. "Then why can I sing so well sometimes?" "Because your throat is in good condition some days--in perfect condition." "It's the colds then--and the slight attacks of colds?" "Certainly." "If I did not catch colds--if I kept perfectly well--could I rely on my voice?" "But that's impossible," said he. "Why?" "You're not strong enough." "Then I haven't the physical strength for a career?" "That--and also you are lacking in muscular development. But after several years of lessons--" "If I developed my muscles--if I became strong--" "Most of the great singers come from the lower classes--from people who do manual labor. They did manual labor in their youth. You girls of the better class have to overcome that handicap." "But so many of the great singers are fat." "Yes, and under that fat you'll find great ropes of muscle--like a blacksmith." "What Keith meant," she said. "I wonder-- Why do I catch cold so easily? Why do I almost always have a slight catch in the throat? Have you noticed that I nearly always have to clear my throat just a little?" Her expression held him. He hesitated, tried to evade, gave it up. "Until that passes, you can never hope to be a thoroughly reliable singer," said he. "That is, I can't hope to make a career?" His silence was assent. "But I have the voice?" "You have the voice." "An unusual voice?" "Yes, but not so unusual as might be thought. As a matter of fact, there are thousands of fine voices. The trouble is in reliability. Only a few are reliable." She nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "I begin to understand what Mr. Keith meant," she said. "I begin to see what I have to do, and how--how impossible it is." "By no means," declared Jennings. "If I did not think otherwise, I'd not be giving my time to you." She looked at him gravely. His eyes shifted, then returned defiantly, aggressively. She said: "You can't help me to what I want. So this is my last lesson--for the present. I may come back some day--when I am ready for what you have to give." "You are going to give up?" "Oh, no--oh, dear me, no," replied she. "I realize that you're laughing in your sleeve as I say so, because you think I'll never get anywhere. But you--and Mr. Keith--may be mistaken." She drew from her muff a piece of music--the "Batti Batti," from "Don Giovanni." "If you please," said she, "we'll spend the rest of my time in going over this. I want to be able to sing it as well as possible." He looked searchingly at her. "If you wish," said he. "But I doubt if you'll be able to sing at all."