“Do you, really?”
“Yes, really.”
She smiled, and tried to hide it by looking down.
It was hardly in man to continue bad-humored before this naïve display of pleasure at his commending word.
“You really think I might some day become a singer, a professional singer?”
“I really do.”
The smile broadened and lit her face.
“You always make me feel so stupid—and—and—as if I didn’t amount to anything,” she murmured.
It was so sweet, so childishly candid, that it melted the last remnant of his bad temper.
“You little goose,” he said softly, “don’t you know I think more of you than I do of any one in San Francisco? It’s getting dark; take my arm till we get to the car.”