Jean sang "ze." She sang "zo." Then he ran her voice into the top and bottom registers. "You have the comprehension. It is the great matter," said Herr Slavska. Then he blazed at her. His "the," quite English when he remained polished and firm, degenerated into a "ze" at times such as these. "You haf not ze breath, none," said he, as though Jean had committed an outrage. Jean, however, had begun to glow with the ardour of future accomplishment. "That’s what I came to learn," she said promptly. "Aha, she has charac*tere*." Herr Slavska was delighted, but Jean found this constant dissection of herself trying. Then the real work began. Herr Slavska breathed, made Jean breathe, hammered at her, expostulated, showed his own ribs rising and falling while his voice remained even, tender, beautiful. Mabel sat clasping her hands over one another. "Oh, Herr Slavska, what a beautiful voice you have," she burst out at last. He looked at her with the greatest surprise. "Ah! You are her sister? Hn? And you sit there listening to us?" He had forgotten her existence. "And you are not of the stupids, no! You say I haf a beautiful voice? Hn? It is ze art, mademoiselle, zat you hear now. Sixty-five, I am zat age! And I still fight for ze stomach wit my beautiful voice. But you are of ze few, is it not? I vil sing to you, mademoiselle, just once. Your sister goes. Ten minutes, mademoiselle--only ten minutes. Zen a rest. And every day to me for two weeks! Hn? Is it not so?" Then he cast up his arms in despair. "Helas! It is my accompaniste. He _is_ not!" Jean the direct stepped in. "Oh, Mabel will play," she said. Herr Slavska took one of his deepest breaths. "I say I shall sing to you--I Herr Slavska. Ant you say ’Mabel will play.’ Hn? Mabel? Who is dis grand Mademoiselle Mabel?" The humour of it suddenly appeared to come upper-most, and Herr Slavska became wickedly, cunningly suave. "Ah yes, then if mademoiselle will," he said blandly. He produced music. Mabel was rooted with fear to the couch. Never in her life before had she been nervous. "Jean, how could you," whispered she. Oh, fortune and the best of luck! He turned to a song of Brahms’. How often had Mabel tried to drum that song into the willing but uncultured Robin! That Robin in his lame way should help her now seemed the funniest freak of fate. She played the first bars hopefully, joyfully. She _knew_ she couldn’t do anything silly there. "But what!" Herr Slavska had caught her by the shoulders, and looked in her eyes. "Mademoiselle Mabel! From ze country! Mademoiselle plays like zat! Hn?" He bowed grandly. "My apologies, Mees Mademoiselle Mabel. We vill haf a rehearsal." He sang through part of his programme for a concert. Mabel energetically remarked afterwards to Jean that she had never really felt heavenly in her life before. "Oh, Jean," she said, "_Jean._"