But Mildred had ceased listening. Keith had seen the picture, had called it a "give away," had been interested in it—and the picture had disappeared. She laughed at her own folly, yet she was glad Stanley had given her this chance to make up a silly day-dream. She waited until he had exhausted himself on the subject of valets, their drunkenness, their thievish habits, their incompetence, then she said:
"I took my last lesson from Jennings to-day."
"What's the matter? Do you want to change? You didn't say anything about it? Isn't he good?"
"Good enough. But I've discovered that my voice isn't reliable, and unless one has a reliable voice there's no chance for a grand-opera career—or for comic opera, either."
Stanley was straightway all agitation and protest. "Who put that notion in your head? There's nothing in it, Mildred. Jennings is crazy about your voice, and he knows."
"Jennings is after the money," replied Mildred. "What I'm saying is the truth. Stanley, our beautiful dream of a career has winked out."
His expression was most revealing.
"And," she went on, "I'm not going to take any more of your money—and, of course, I'll pay back what I've borrowed when I can"—she smiled—"which may not be very soon."
"What's all this about, anyhow?" demanded he. "I don't see any sign of it in your face. You wouldn't take it so coolly if it were so."
"I don't understand why I'm not wringing my hands and weeping," replied she. "Every few minutes I tell myself that I ought to be. But I stay quite calm. I suppose I'm—sort of stupefied."