"What WILL become of me?" she said. Her face lighted up with an expression of reckless beauty. "If I could only get started I'd go to the devil, laughing and dancing—and taking a train with me."
"You ARE started," said he, with an amiable smile. "Keep on. But I doubt if you'll be so well amused as you may imagine. Going to the devil isn't as it's painted in novels by homely old maids and by men too timid to go out of nights. A few steps farther, and your disillusionment will begin. But there'll be no turning back. Already, you are almost too old to make a career."
"I'm only twenty-four. I flattered myself I looked still younger."
"It's worse than I thought," said he. "Most of the singers, even the second-rate ones, began at fifteen—began seriously. And you haven't begun yet."
"That's unjust," she protested. "I've done a little. Many great people would think it a great deal."
"You haven't begun yet," repeated he calmly. "You have spent a lot of money, and have done a lot of dreaming and talking and listening to compliments, and have taken a lot of lessons of an expensive charlatan. But what have those things to do with a career?"
"You've never heard me sing."
"I do not care for singing."
"Oh!" said she in a tone of relief. "Then you know nothing about all this."
"On the contrary, I know everything about a career. And we were talking of careers, not of singing."