"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."