Mrs. Brindley looked amused. "How would he live if he did that? It's a teacher's business to teach. Learning—that's the pupil's lookout. If teachers taught only those who could and would learn, how would they live?"
"Then I'll not know whether I'll do!" exclaimed Mildred.
"You'll have to find out for yourself," said Mrs. Brindley. "No one can tell you. Anyone's opinion might be wrong. For example, I've known Jennings, who is a very good judge, to be wrong—both ways." Hesitatingly: "Why not sing for me? I'd like to hear."
"Would you tell me what you honestly thought?" said Mildred.
Mrs. Brindley laughingly shook her head. Mildred liked her honesty. "Then it'd be useless to sing for you," said she. "I'm not vain about my voice. I'd simply like to make a living by it, if I could. I'll even confess that there are many things I care for more than for music. Does that prove that I can never sing professionally?"
"No, indeed," Mrs. Brindley assured her. "It'd be strange if a girl of your age cared exclusively for music. The passion comes with the work, with progress, success. And some of the greatest—that is, the most famous and best paid—singers never care much about music, except as a vanity, and never understand it. A singer means a person born with a certain shape of mouth and throat, a certain kind of vocal chords. The rest may be natural or acquired. It's the instrument that makes the singer, not brains or temperament."
"Do let me sing for you," said Mildred. "I think it will help me."
Between them they chose a little French song—"Chanson d'Antonine"—and Mrs. Brindley insisted on her playing her own accompaniment. "I wish to listen," said she, "and I can't if I play."
Mildred was surprised at her own freedom from nervousness. She sang neither better nor worse than usual—sang in the clear and pleasant soprano which she flattered herself was not unmusical. When she finished she said:
"That's about as I usually sing. What do you think?"