“But why? Surely you’re not going to let one failure discourage you.”
I was disturbed. From a few recent remarks, I am satisfied that she has no means whatever. She must go on with her singing; as Mrs. Bushey would say, “One must live.” She could curb her ambitions, make her living on a less brilliant plane.
“I’ll never sing again,” she answered.
“You might give up attempting the opera, or even concerts. But there are so many other things you could do. Church singing—you began that way.”
“Yes, that’s it. I began, and I’m not going back to where I began. I’m going on or I’m going to stop. And I can’t go on.”
I thought she alluded to her lack of means and said:
“Lizzie, I can get the money for you to go back to Vignorol—I can get people who will stand behind you and give you every chance.”
She looked listlessly at the wall and shook her head.
“It’s no use. I don’t want it. Masters was right. I know it now.”
“You mean—” I stopped; it seemed too cruel.