"You mean that my voice is worthless because I haven't the other elements?"
"What else could I have meant?" said he. "You haven't the strength. You haven't the health."
She laughed as she straightened herself. "Do I look weak and sickly?" cried she.
"For the purposes of a career as a female you are strong and well," said he. "For the purpose of a career as a singer—" He smiled and shook his head. "A singer must have muscles like wire ropes, like a blacksmith or a washerwoman. The other day we were climbing a hill—a not very steep hill. You stopped five times for breath, and twice you sat down to rest."
She was literally hanging her head with shame. "I wasn't very well that day," she murmured.
"Don't deceive yourself," said he. "Don't indulge in the fatal folly of self-excuse."
"Go on," she said humbly. "I want to hear it all."
"Is your throat sore to-day?" pursued he.
She colored. "It's better," she murmured.
"A singer with sore throat!" mocked he. "You've had a slight fogginess of the voice all summer."