"There isn't a doubt in my mind now," replied he. "You ought to be one of the few great lyric sopranos within five years."
"A man, this summer—a really unusual man in some ways—told me there was no hope for me."
"A singing teacher?"
"No, a lawyer. A Mr. Keith—Donald Keith."
"I've heard of him," said Jennings. "His mother was Rivi, the famous coloratura of twenty years ago."
Mildred was astounded. "He must know something about music."
"Probably," replied Jennings. "He lived with her in Italy, I believe, until he was almost grown. Then she died. You sang for him?"
"No," Mildred said it hesitatingly.
"Oh!" said Jennings, and his expression—interested, disturbed, puzzled—made Mildred understand why she had been so reluctant to confess. Jennings did not pursue the subject, but abruptly began the lesson. That day and several days thereafter he put her to tests he had never used before. She saw that he was searching for something—for the flaw implied in the adverse verdict of the son of Lucia Rivi. She was enormously relieved when he gave over the search without having found the flaw. She felt that Donald Keith's verdict had been proved false or at least faulty. Yet she was not wholly reassured, and from time to time she suspected that Jennings had not been, either.
Soon the gayety of the preceding winter and spring was in full swing again. Keith did not return, did not write, and Cyrilla Brindley inquired and telephoned in vain. Mildred worked with enthusiasm, with hope, presently with confidence. She hoped every day that Keith would come; she would make him listen to her, force him to admit. She caught a slight cold, neglected it, tried to sing it away. Her voice left her abruptly. She went to Jennings as usual the day she found herself able to do nothing more musical than squeak. She told him her plight. Said he: